Best Carving Poems
Wood Carving
He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul. “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?” The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him. The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be. Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness. One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother. “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?” They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults. That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”. “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”. The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here. “I know, Mommy”. She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”? “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?” The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed. The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.
John G. Lawless
9/27/2014
For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest
I can not give away the Image engraved in my vision
as I stood beside giants while hidden
mighty Titans, that is how I saw the trees that hid me
in their shadows like a villain
thrown together by circumstance,
I looked high into the sky, had to cover my eyes
reaching out for an introduction
my gesture sat unmoved, unworthy
the trees remain silent and solemn
absurd, it would be troubling if a Tree answered me
as a friend to attend a function
crazy as it seems the perfect witness is a tree
to keep a secret like an alliance unspoken
a maze of roots wrapped around in the soil
twisting, and turning almost impossible to follow, to my feet, to a connection
In the privacy of the trees, I saw you hiding from me or was it a dream that brought me here just to see you my dear carving the heart of another into our tree
the tree trunk held a carving of the smallest heart
amber in color like old blood no longer red
I found you here like all the tears that do not fall
instead I am drowning in my head
the knife came from your pocket as you were kissing me
far into a place unexpected
with precision our letters appeared in the center
of the tree, of the heart, of regrets
pride, he walked me along the path to the trees
to the heart, to you and the sharpest of knives that I keep in your chest
time has slipped away,no forward, no back, no simply left me in trespass
my titan trees did not protest the screams
the blood that still runs along their roots
twisting and turning from you to me at last
Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
"...and
the modist
carving
into the
closet
door
read:
"I do not place my life, nor my trust,
my belief nor my faith within
the
resume
of man,
nor within
his cause.
For he
proclaimed,
is but a
mere
farthing
of his
merest
self;
and not
of Me.
He is
an avid
boasting;
ungrateful,
in the end
still unwilling
to know Me
and share Me
with all life.
Yes, time
is only a
vergence
forgone
to him.
His final
day he
will bring;
and in the way,
he brings this
he cannot rest.
I am certain of this."
"Signed: "Peace"
An ever reflective heart, spirit, mind, body, and soul, nice to meet you, friend.
Some have once called the dreamer as self-serving within the jest that they carry for themselves.
I have no resume of security, nor the double mind found through shame, pain, without submitting this effort to our Creator.
I will not seek to please the mere twist of myself. for in applying myself towards this effort, means dishonor in death.
How best may we serve, because I've said my prayers and am learning, I must apply myself to nothing less?
If this effort is merely for myself, be forewarned I will lead us off of a cliff with the pigs.
As I am being moved today, I am being formed into shape.
I mean to say, I am not the wonton victim today.
I am my very own jailer alone, no, I have no pardon for myself, all by myself.
Jesus, come, protect, Jesus, save who needs to be saved, save us from ourselves.
Jesus, keep us willing, bless us to share You as we will with the truth that carries all of us even in and through the very pain of death.
Keep the breath of life within us, bless us to save face in Your Presence, let this effort be our only wealth.
happy birthday America-time to carve the blue stars from the cake
Aren't grandchildren marvelous! Spoil them just rotten,
then give them back, but they are never forgotten.
My maternal instincts are rekindled and who
best to let them experience the joy I knew.
One of my preferred seasons is pumpkin season,
tis for Halloween if for no other reason
than to take them out to a pumpkin patch and glean
their own monster orange pumpkin for Halloween.
I had missed the sounds of laughter of my children,
but my grandchildren have filled the empty cauldron.
We brought the pumpkins home. For their very first time,
curious, they plunge in, eviscerate the slime;
doesn't seem all that tasty or appealing at first.
With some fallacious explanations they immersed
scooping out its seedy, nasty stringy insides.
They love to tantalize; well, I'm one who decides.
So many questions they asked to bewilder me.
A mass with scarlet paint an ugliness they see.
Candles flicker a whirling vortex of smoke at first;
just in time for the spooky night of October 31st.
6/21/2018
supernatural
friend I never see, touch, - rose
without thorns I kiss
The morning sun creeps slowly from underneath the grey sky
Dancing merrily with the angels on high
while the trees listen carefully to the Gods will
And the birds converse harmoniously within
I kept walking along the path watching the day as it starts
I stood Faraway from human interaction seeking out natures ambitions
Suddenly I saw an object along the road carrying an awful heavy load
With a deep message carved out on its hard back
It is not a co-incident I can attest to that
It seems as if it is has been on a long journey
and had a message to deliver in a hurry
Further up the path a deer stood in the middle of the road
gazing at me as if it had something important to tell me
This is the third deer that crossed my path this week
abruptly walking out in front of me
I wonder what they want me to know.
I simultaneously contemplate this fact while careful examining
the message on the creatures close-packed back
I took some amazing picture and compare them with similar creature
but this one was very special it bears a message from Emperor
The color and carvings made me wonder
Gold and black with shades of brown
With distinctive images filtering all around
Every carving on its back has some human
and animal elements around each spot
The hands and fingers were clear and eyes
and nose are represented in small dots
with various symbolic answers strapped on its back
It stood quietly hiding its slender head
And pretending as if it was dead
Giving me the chance to scrutinize its back
Three human stood on each side of its shell
guarding some secret door on the upper floor
A woman wearing a long golden dress stands in the middle
with long golden hair and darkened face
its hard to tell if they originate from earth
or they came from space
An headless man with a bird's beak
wearing in a golden dress with black stripe running across his chest
Three women stand on the other side of the shell
attire in a golden dress but a dark shadow conceal their face
All around the turtle shell signs and symbols carved out in line
revealing the secret of our youth and exposing the human truth
Inspect the carving on the turtle's back and you will know all the facts.
She sat in silence, whittling wood,
Creating magic with her hands,
Here she couldn't be misunderstood,
Carving charming pieces on stands,
Fulfilling customer demands;
She carved serenely, working hard,
Chipping away those needless bits,
Making art out of something marred,
This showcased her finesse and wits,
She loved her work, wouldn’t call it quits;
With this job, she couldn’t make ends meet,
But she rose to the occasion,
Pouring her heart into each feat
With skill and perfect equation,
She persevered with persuasion;
She had the courage to dream on,
Toiling with the sweat of her brow,
Soon she saw the glow of the dawn,
Her artefacts are famous now,
Her diligence paid off and how!
10th March 2022
For Emile Pinet's "Quintain (English)" poetry contest
Rhymes checked with www.rhymezone.com
It's getting hot in here,
350 degrees,
picked clean, and stuffed.
Keep the meats separated, turkey!
Some like dark meat.
Some like white meat.
Segregated even on Thanksgiving.
Yams or sweet potatoes,
Mashed or baked,
all turkey is best with trimmings and gravy.
Yet, people just want to carve us up,
divide us,
and fight at the table.
Pardon you!
Pardon me!
Had we seen Grace, we would be running free,
together,
of one body,
and thanking Christ.
I love pumpkins sure
All those big and small are fine
The big ones are best
But the miniature ones
Can be lots of fun as well
I enjoy carving
Pumpkins into feared faces
Those creepy dark ones
Then I light them from inside
Perfect for Halloween night
Russell Sivey
We were once rivers,
braiding through each other’s lives,
carving valleys of shared wonder.
Now we float in bubbles,
soft-walled sanctuaries of sameness,
drifting past one another
with eyes turned inward.
The more we seal our edges,
the less we feel the ripple,
of another’s breath.
I went outside
Chisel in hand
Found a tree with the biggest trunk
Took a firm stand
Wood chips began to fly
A heart began to appear
I thought we'd be together
But a cross grain was near
A knot stopped me
The heart was complete
It will remain empty inside, like me
Until true love I meet
Some days I fly like an eagle,
some days I waddle like a duck—
today I’m fried chicken
crispy, cold, out of luck.
Some days I run with wild horses,
some days I hunt with the wolfpack—
today I’m a belly-up snake
on asphalt cracked and black.
Oh, how I swam with dolphins,
struck like white sharks through foam—
today I’m gutted salmon,
smoked and salted far from home.
On the cutting stone.
Some days I prowl like a panther
through jungle thick and green—
today I am scraps for rodents
on a stranger’s kitchen floor unseen.
Some days I howl with coyotes
at moons both dark and bright—
today I’m roadkill possum
as vultures circle, rip and fight.
Now I feel like a broken song
my voice ground coarse and gray,
wondering what cruel appetite
has left me spayed flayed betrayed.
On the grinding stone.
It’s the hollowness of silence
when the wild has moved on through,
and you’re served up on life’s table—
nothing left that’s truly you.
It’s the break when seasons stagger
when the night gnaws through the bone,
the crack where time is splintered
and the sky abandons its throne.
On the whetstone
I lie between migrations—
wildness gone, yet not my own.
Not on my own, not on my own—
On the tombstone.
Caught within the fault-line
turning like a prayer all alone all alone... so alone.
Wait—
the Potter’s shaping stone.
Starving and Carving
While other people in the world are starving,
In America, on a turkey have been carving;
Then heard God say,
Have happy Holiday,
And soon Christmas season will be arriving.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Master of Limericks, MLm
This poem can be found on Page 6A
of Brunswick Beacon, Shallotte, NC
dated Thursday, November 30, 2017.
he stood and people stand,
he walked and people walk,
he flew and people fly,
and on the inside wrappers
of candy bars
and on the paper napkins
from fast food restaurants
and from the scraps of
brown bags and
old newspapers
the notes
came pouring in
notes from songs
that people longed
to have sung
from all who
followed him
climbing
rung to rung.
The notes drifted
down
like falling leaves
a shower
from the future
of future needs
and those who followed
continued to build the dream
from blueprints written
on leaves that came tumbling down.