Best Pocket Knife Poems
My Inventory:
flashlights
high-performance yo-yo
poetry books
fishing poles
ice-fishing hut
regret
pocket knife
sharpening stones
laughter
boomerangs
passwords
life's artifacts
Grandpa's Fishing Hat
hope and joy
Guardian Angel
wooden snow-sleds
more poetry books
olde-tyme-radios
compassion
camping gear
Babar, the Stuffed-Elephant
Angel-in-a-basket
imagination
McCoy Cookie Jars
nature field-guides
forgiveness
Soup-friends
ties I don't wear
family heirloom recipes
suits I try not to wear
treasured photographs
170 poems
antique lamps
my Children's love
......and You
my Savior
....... Jesus Christ
Scrap the smoldering, winsome words
the lovely odd truce made of letters
found carved with the edge of an old pocket knife
on a strap made of metal and leather
Burn off the tarnish on platinum rings
engraved with the infernal: "LOVE"
found pulling limp loyalty up to it's feet
and then giving it a death dealing shove
Trip over shoes which should still be for dancing
and spin them right into the trash
found in the corner of the cluttered dark room
like a pack rat's incurable stash
Blow open windows long stuck closed with paint
Push all the junk to the sill
Unburden your soul of it's hideous secrets
and snatch back your sacred free will...
Halloween Night
Good evening Boys & Ghouls, with anticipation and all your drools
Especially the ladies with fake jewels, tonight breaking all the rules
Why it is finally Halloween night, and for most of you a festive fright
I see Dracula with a boastful bite, showing age with fangs off-white
Frankenstein holding his second spleen, a great photo for Halloween
And Vampira the horror Queen with her succulent after-dinner cuisine
Michael Myers with his pocket knife, giving you the gift of eternal life
Looks like an evening of strife, good of you for bringing the lovely wife
I see Freddy chasing teens, with something extra in his Krueger jeans
Jason with his playful routines wants you to be his quest by all means
Leather-face shaved for this event, using his saw the only way to vent
Jigsaw will encase you in cement watching you solve puzzles in lament
Mummy & Werewolf do their dance, enticing the ladies with freelance
If you leave this is your chance, but you will miss this Monster romance
We want you to stay with great delight, saved the best for last to excite
A poet from Poetry-Soup to recite, their poems, a scary frightful sight.
No animals or humans were harmed in the making of this poem, maybe some monsters...please forgive me if I insulted anyone...this poem is for laughing and educational purposes only...do not copy.
Oct.19.2018
Halloween Night
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
Placed 3'rd
Premiere Contest
I’m left perplexed. How vexing, how complex…
the plight of a simple man, (one’s ruin is another’s choosing) is moving and doing the least that he can, no oil changes no wedding band.
All this just to exist, just to be standing, still living, surviving this life with a pocket knife and all the time that most never venture to find before the last goodbye.
Like the return of high tide you can count on his nothing, nothing to show nothing to hide... a cowboy trailblazing the countryside.
Beethoven's eleventh symphony ?keeps the beat of this visceral epiphany.?
No piano key in record history? could serenade away the blue music that drips from the riffs in me.
How is it to be, so utterly free. No paper trail to keep folded neatly, a homeless nomadic home body taking what the rest of us are wasting, catching sickness digging ditches while we dine on delicious richness.
My intuition becomes twisted and misses the simpleness where my wisdom depicted the abyss, this before my vision was transformed by barely bearing witness to his existence.
“Do you like yabbies?” Barry asked. I replied “Are you sick!
I’d just like to ask you; now is the Pope a Catholic?” …
So we headed off across the ranges, where Barry’s cousin Ray,
had a dam that’s full of them on a property near Yea.
There’s no sophisticated fishing gear that we needed to get.
Just a stocking, string, piece of meat; plus a wobbly old scoop net.
The dam was quite a big one with tussocks growing ‘round the rim.
Within an hour I had scooped a bucket filled up to the brim.
We knocked off to have some lunch and to have a beer or two.
but in that hour we sat down we knocked down quite a few.
When I resumed my ‘yabbying’, my head’s spinning like a top,
and then I saw a frightening sight that made me quickly stop.
A big brown snake was sunning, between me and the dam.
The beer had made me brave enough to give this bloke a slam.
I picked up an old dry limb and gave it one tremendous whack;
it squirmed and twisted in death thro’s; then lay dead upon its back.
Barry claimed I was a hero when he’d seen what I had done,
not many tackle brown snakes; they slide faster than we run.
“Is that so” I said to him, and was sobering ‘quick smart’,
watching Barry in his stupor pick up the snake and play his part.
He opened up the mouth and then he got out his pocket knife.
Put the blade behind a needle fang, “Here’s what takes your life”.
Then said “I ought to skin him; it’s prob’ly worth a ‘pretty pound”.
Then just for fun he grabbed the tail and swung it ‘round and ‘round.
“Be careful mate!” I turned and ran; making sure, I’m out of the way.
“What’s the matter?” Barry laughed. “This mongrel’s had its day.
I‘ll show you something else” and held the snake behind the neck,
then put its head into his mouth; then he gave it’s nose a ‘peck’.
Barry seen that I was nervous; that he held me in his palm.
He watched me flinch and shiver when he wrapped it ‘round his arm.
“Ah that’s enough” he grinned, but I reckon he’d been rash,
then he swung it high into the air. We watched it fall and splash.
Barry laughed, “That’s ‘gunna’ give the yabbies quite a feed”.
Then something happened in the water that Barry didn’t need.
We turned to walk back to our strings - Barry’s face turned ashen grey.
It took a while reviving him when the brown snake swam away.
A friend told me that while on vacation she visited the world’s largest ball of string. It inspired me to write this poem.
A giant ball of string
It sat out in an open field
It was the strangest thing
An orb the size of who knows what
A giant ball of string
We laughed as we walked hand in hand
Our eyes were mystified
She tried to reach around the ball
Me on the other side
Neither of our hands could touch
Still inches far apart
I chuckled just a little bit
Her laughter it did start
When then I saw her look around
She wore a sneaky grin
Reached into her pocket deep
Then glanced around again
Her hand it held a pocket knife
A shining piece of steel
She then cut off a piece of string
And quickly did conceal
We ran away so very fast
Till it was far behind
Then stopped so I could figure out
What she had on her mind
When she reached out and took my hand
Pulled out the piece of string
Then tied it round my finger tight
A smile it did bring
I asked her tell me what it meant
She answered me so true
I tied it so you won’t forget
That I’m in love with you
The Spit & Whittle Club
As remembered: by Miracle Man
3-21-2020
As a kid it was always town on Saturday,
horses and wagons dotted our main street.
Tied to curb rings up and down Broadway,
then penny candy, was sometimes a treat.
Many had come to gin a weeks cotton,
and buy flour and coffee for another week.
Times back then would today seem rotten,
But that was life and times were bleak.
Worn out by years, older men would sit,
they did this having nothing pressing to do.
On a bench swapping yarns to whittle, and spit,
and think, at days end, how the time flew.
All older men needed was a plug of Brown’s Mule,
and a pocket knife, and of course a stick.
Tom
Mulga Mick
The ice was thick round Mulga Mick,
His thoughts were in disorder,
Shiela had gone off with another chick,
Got the “Raw Prawn” bloody sort of,
His car had died when a Roo he tried,
To eat the old cars number plate,
Death slapped down, upon the Roo applied,
Destroyed the water radiator,
So staggering through the ice an snow,
Was poor ole Mulga Mick,
He wore the Roo hide, wrapped you know,
Pocket knife had skinned it quick.
Roo tail soup for Mulga Mick,
Before he walked away,
He staggered back to the township,
Catch a new lady is the only way.
Don Johnson
John, when your girl runs off with another girl,
you feel like you've been given a raw prawn. aussie slang ...
Tony, like mcguyver you have to use what's available to survive....
When you ask me about myself,
I will take note of your lack of eyes,
Because you have no eyes,
I will tell you all my secrets
I will tell you how I wish on stars,
And how for years I thought
The universe voted against me
So I used opposites to trick her.
I will tell you how I clench my teeth
While I untangle a ball of yarn
How I whisper promises to my plants
The same way I wish someone would me.
I will tell you I am not a violent person
But I feel best when throwing a punch
How I hold a pocket knife in my fist
How I don't think I would hesitate to use it.
I will tell you I feel safest in sound waves
But my fingers trip on each other
Yet my tongue is my clumsiest feature
And my brain is no help on the matter.
I will tell you so many secrets
Hundreds of the thousands I've collected
Because you do not have eyes,
Because I do not know you.
My old friend, my "Uncle Henry" knife, has been with me most of my days. No matter what, through thick and thin, I have had him in my pocket for sixty-four years. I received my first knife the same day I received my first wallet. I lost the wallet the same day I received it. It was a sad ending for a nice birthday, October 5, 1948.
elated
the young man soars --
milestone
Yes, just as one of those rides turned upside down my wallet fell, inside was change from a ten dollar bill. A bitter lesson, but one well learned. The gift from my dad --money I had saved. I also lost my newly gained stature ...the grown-up I now thought I was. Reaching into my front pocket I gained reassurance that at least the knife was still there. It was, and since then, I have had one with me everywhere except where they are not allowed.
my knife
with me always --
security blanket
Oh it’s only used for minor things, like picking out a splinter or briar. I also use it opening letters. You know- -things like that. But strange as it sounds, when I don’t have it on me I no longer feel whole, like something is missing. I have developed a strange attachment to it. More than an attachment it is a feeling of kinship. I have had many in my lifetime. Some I lost the day they came out of the box. But, no matter how many, each one is still my one and only knife, my Uncle Henry. And for some reason, I feel, I have never had but one-- the one I have now.
note: This is modern haiku. It is very subjective to my feelings now of the emotions I had then. It may be factual or not but represents my remembrance of the event and the value I now place on it.
A boy walks a half mile down a trail
He stops
Walks towards a large tree
Pulls a pocket knife from his jacket
His father gave him this knife
Having received it from his father
And his father before him
A boy carves into the bark of the tree
His name
I WAS HERE
A boy becomes a man
And a man walks down many trails
Many trails and many trees
I WAS HERE, I WAS HERE, I WAS HERE
A man crosses a bridge
Upon it he carves his name
I WAS HERE
He slips
Drops the knife into the water
It is lost forever
A knife falls into a river
And a man grows old
No wife, no children, no grandchildren
He is alone
A knife is swept into an ocean
And an old man dies, as old men do
Tell me,
What is the value of an object,
If it holds significance to only one man?
What is the value of a man,
If he is significant to no one?
If a tree falls when no one is around,
Does it make a sound?
(I WAS HERE)
A tree falls in a forest
A tree with a name carved into it
A name carved by a boy who became a man who is now dead
I WAS HERE
A tree is turned into paper
And the paper becomes pages
And the pages hold two stories
One in ink, one invisible
I WAS HERE
Tell me,
What is the value of a story that no one reads?
Does a story exist if it cannot be read?
If a man dies when no one is in the room,
Is he really dead?
Many years have passed
A girl stands a half mile down a trail
Marker in her hand
I WAS HERE.
He had do fight all odds
A man of unbreakable idealism
Alone with his ideas
A mysterious death at high sea
The truth will never be known
--------------------------------------------------
Gegen alle Widerstände
Ein Mann mit ungebrochenem Idealismus
Alleine mit seinen Ideen
Mysteriöser Tod auf hoher Sea
Die Wahrheit wird niemand erfahren
-------------------------------------------------
En lucha contra todas probabilidades
Un hombre de idealismo irrompible
Solo con sus ideas
Una muerte misteriosa en alta mar
La verdad nunca será conocida
Note: Rudolf Christian Karl Diesel, 1858-1913, was a German engineer and the inventor of
the Diesel engine. He spent his youth until 1870 in Paris and surroundings. When being
extradited after the start of the German-French-War in 1870, Diesel and his family left for
London. He as a child travelled alone to Augsburg, Germany were he lived for five years
with his uncle and went to school there. He started studies of mechanical engineering in
1875 in Munich and applied for a patent of a „New and economical power engine“ at the
Emperial Patent-Office in Berlin. From 1908 on he developed the first functional model of
his engine with the financial assistance of the Krupp company. In January 1898 the first
factory for Diesel engines was built in Augsburg, Germany. A Diesel Engine Company was
inaugurated by autumn 1900 in London. The first motor vessels with a Diesel engine were
built in 1903. Diesel was at a state of bad health due to numerous patent-lawsuits. He was
not a good businessman and lost his complete fortune. On September 29th Diesel boarded the
mail-vessel Dresden to cross the Channel for Harwich to participate in a meeting of the
„Consolidated Diesel Manufacturing Ltd.“ in London. He seemed to be in a good manner when
he was last seen on board of the ship. On October 10th 1913 the crew of a Dutch
government pilot ship saw a body drifting in the water at heavy sea. As the body was
highly decomposed, the crew only got hold of some personal belongings (a pastille box,
purse, pocket knife and a spectacle case) which were later identified as Diesel's
belongings by his son Eugen. The real cause of his death was never clarified and his
dependants never believed in suicide, but in murder to steal Diesel's ideas. So his death
is still remains a mystery.
To My Wife On Valentines Day 2015
Tree of Love by JT Curtis
Once a year I walk to
A wooded lot by me
It doesn't take me very long
To find that special tree
There, dwells sweet memories,
As my love for you still grows
That's why I've carved this heart, for you
So many years ago
I'm reminded of the first time
I saw you standing here
I heard a voice, a silent voice
Like Cupid in my ear
So, I walked up to this tree
and with my pocket knife
I carved the message in its bark
"Will you please be my wife"
Now every Valentines
I'm sure to make my way
Down to this old tree
That's still standing here today
And take out my old knife
To carve another heart
To show the world, I still love you
And that we'll never part
Under divinities shadow,
Rests the tree of life.
With aromatic branches,
Dissected by a pocket knife.
Medicinal veins lushly flow,
Carrying remedial cures.
A verdant daze ensues,
As romantic buds allure.
Poetic smoke…recites,
The stanzas of cannabis trees.
As healthy lungs exclaim,
The power of curative leaves.
_______________________
Inspired by a Lucky Lopez!!!
HARRY WEST
The Kadaitchi (Witch Doctor) Knight
Harry stood alone and sniffed the breeze
a pongy hay smell, Japanese
Harry sheltered there beneath a tree
a gum tree dripping sap
The Black Knight shed his lap lap
joined the natives from Rabaul
he took the weight from one sore back
when a native carrier fell
Samurai sadist with a sword
shouted at this poor man
The carriers head then went forward
Blood rushed out oer the sand
It was Kokoda 1942 our Harry West had seen,
the timeless trackless mountains all made of jungle green,
yellow peril so sadistic take a life with casual ease,
slaughter in a jungle where Aussies fought with Japanese
At nightfall all lay down their load
And drifted off to sleep
But Harry slyly watched the toad
Then upon the Jap did creep
The blunt pocket knife did cut
The yellow perils throat
The carriers then were free, but
No time to stay and gloat
Harry went back and got
sugar bag full of grenades
machine gun pit blown, the dead to rot
Harry reigned on their parade
You couldn’t follow Harry
He’d learned his craft too well
Cassowary moccasins would carry
Harry left no track or smell.
Japanese thought he was evil, when
He didn’t give em any chance
Just threw grenades amongst them
To watch em scream and dance…..Don Johnson
Harry’s best friend had died fighting and Harry swore revenge and went native
behind the Japanese lines, naked he carried a few hand grenades in a sugar bag.
The Japanese thought a black demon was stalking them in these green mountains,
On the Kokoda trail. Harry West an Australian Aboriginal Soldier from Goodooga got the
Military Medal, he should have got the Victoria Cross he earned it.