Best Whetstone Poems
There is no denying the power of love.
It is a splendid teacher
Quite adept at instructing us
In ways that completely alter our character,
And telling us how to be what we never were,
Or never even imagined we could ever be.
In certain individuals
Its transformations are frequently nothing short of miraculous.
It breaks down all our natural barriers,
And in the blink of an eye
Can turn a niggardly pinchpenny into a philanthropist,
An obsequious milquetoast into a courageous and gallant knight,
And make a paragon of "politesse" out of an absolute boor.
The inveterate sluggard becomes a captain of industry,
And the most innocent of dullards
Becomes a wellspring of sagacity and worldliness.
What a marvelous whetstone for sharpening wits
And honing the senses is love.
Even its most hardened critics…
Those victims and casualties who proved to be intractable and unteachable…
Find it difficult, if not impossible,
To deny the power of love's ability to inspire
The most truly amazing things in a human heart.
A feast of eye-catching hues swirl midair,
stoic fragile leaf a chill whisper,
overt orange, deep vein red,
pallid yellow, scaly amber,
jumble upon bright clad jumble,
earthbound mattress on a grey mud plot,
bald cypress, Norway maple,
crepe myrtle, pin oak,
shed their raw-hewn splintered twig,
amid the waning sun in bleak morph,
late August and September tread,
damp weather bashful pilgrimage,
acorn mulch stuck between the grooves,
of rugged footwear on limp moss,
along harvest ripened pastures,
hardy toilers lay their white ash scythe,
they reap, gather and proudly stack,
turnips, pumpkins, squash, beet, zucchini,
lifeblood to thriving market square,
rustic idyl diet, whetstone oven backdrop,
whiffs of healthful soup simmering,
bowls scraped, hunger sated,
red ember coal fire glows,
aromatic haze taunt the frozen nose,
symbolic fall eon meter pending,
still a buoyant risen spirit
Cracker-Barrel Oracle
by Odin Roark
The whittler
Atop the rickety steps,
Shavings piled at ancient feet,
Eyes the blade
Needing attention soon.
The canine,
Head lifted from paws,
Yawns,
Eyes open
Watching chips fall…
Wondering.
Dust swirls gritty remembrance,
Tumbleweeds careen,
History’s weathered saloon sign dangles,
Jailhouse door swings aimlessly,
Both hinged with rust of reborn pasts.
Wind stops.
Gritty remembrances pause.
Silence merges
With airborne carvings
Amidst ghost-like sighs.
Eroded stick now but a sliver
Awaits to discover its purpose
As whetstone awaits the blade.
A foreshadowing gust turns time’s page,
Beckoning next chapter’s revealing.
Prophetic air anxiously anticipates,
As carver laments
Yesterday’s memory
Today’s forever cycle.
A mutt’s whine suggests acceptance.
Few hear the silence or the quiet whimper.
Of European descent, from whence they came
Across the borders to settle, re-establishment
Angles, Saxons and Jutes – Anglo-Saxon be known
Conquered lands, such roads have served, that of the Roman Empire
Yet under attack, strong order we lack
Helpless – o’ kingdom cry
As legions left, nations wept
Our production has ceased
O’ Saxons – mercenaries be hired
Will you defend us now?
Picts trouble thee
From ‘worthlessness’, ‘choice nature’ reflect
Anglo warriors now stand abreast
Ruddy remains, Arthur’s battle in vain
Battle of Hastings, charge and maim
A legend’s defeat, as armies retreat to lands afore
O treasured finds, beneath the silt
Fragmented helmet, of skilled design
Corrosion abhor, yet to restore
Tarnished silverware, o’ iron rusts
For much gold lay, retained –unchanged
Grave goods of Sutton Hoo, barrow over thy ship
O’ King be laid?
With objects frayed
Unaware of whetstone wear – we honour thee!
Of features present, of features past
Churches of stone, post-hole home
Tis farming year, with ploughs we break
Prepare thy soil, crops shall thrive
Fatten thy cattle, raise thy calf
Barter thee, present ye half
Commence thy craft, thy potter’s clay
Of antler work and carpentry
Thee be skilled, our peoples free
Written by Geraldine Taylor ©
Cracker-Barrel Sage
The whittler
Atop the rickety steps
Shavings piled at her ancient feet
Eyes the blade
Needing attention soon
The mongrel
Head on paws
Yawns
One eye open
Watching chips fall
Wondering
Why whittle
Worries
Boredom
Purpose
Dust swirls gritty remembrance
Tumbleweeds careen
Weathered saloon sign dangles
Jailhouse door swings aimlessly
Both hinged with rust of the past
Wind stops
Silence
A canine's whimper
A whittler's sigh
Eroded stick now a toothpick
Whetstone works the blade
A foreshadowing gust turns page
Beckoning next chapter's portent
Prophetic air anxiously awaiting
Yesterday's memory
Today's forever cycle
Whittler laments knowingly
As rains and the torrentialest of snows plummet,
Filling all the skies and the area interstitial to earth and sky
With a frenzy of flying flakes;
As gusty winds doth blow and toss the flakes this way and that;
As torrents true amid the most rending species of gale
Dash themselves bitterly and self-destructively
Against this crude roof,
It is of my hodiernal solitariness,
My aloneness and lonesomeness,
My singleness, and plural,
Romantic stationariness that I must needs
And peradventure speak:
Yet, firstly, permit us all to sit still and our selves
Stationary, silent and still; and silence that intruding music
So ominous yet banal, tinny and slight:
Lighthearted 'tis it, as well:
That which plainly portends our overwhelming destruction,
And that of all our cogitation, cognition, concentration
And composition, with its overmuch resonant yet tinniest
Intrusiveness.
So allow to be it thus and summarily silenced-
Now, that's better.
A man can listen to himself think again;
He can form cognitive thought and appreciation thereof.
Therefor, that music silenced and my concentrative powers
Revived: As a blade at the whetstone, resharpened:
I can keep on with the prosody and poesy of my plight,
But...
by Robert (Bob) Moore © 2015
I hate the sound of mowers in the morning
it means the neighbour’s going to cut his grass
I know it won’t be long, before the same old song
“when do you think that you’ll get off your ass”
“The neighbours garden always look so lov’ly
and ours looks like the hard way through the pass
I do what I can, but you know that you’re the man
so get off your ass and go and mow the grass.”
I go out back, and stare down at the mower
the mower sits and stares right back at me
I pull on his rope, he coughs like it’s a joke
then settles back, I tried, but its not to be
I go inside and make myself a cuppa
she comes out and said “my that was quick”
the mower will not start, so I’ll just rest my heart
then try again, and maybe hit it with a stick
“You can get the clippers out, and clip the edges
I see they have not been clipped for quite a while
or maybe you could even do some weeding”
she’s good, she says all this without a smile
So I go out and get the garden clippers
and test them on a blade of grass I see
maybe they just need a little sharpening
it could make the job much easier for me.
I go into the shed and get the whetstone
and settle down, the blade across my knee
the mower stares, and I stare back
then cut my hand and blood is all I see.
I guess the garden needs to wait another day
my wife is tending to my injury
the cuts not very deep, but I think that I will keep
this woman who is looking after me
(I know it does not rhyme much at the end, but who cares, no gardening today)
brings world word ii gunnery duty
as extremely frightful flashback
which utterly displeases this elderly mortal
and such behavior moi aback!
Born in this same house
on Leona avenue, this oldster doth dwell
which neighborhood once felt like heaven,
but now seems like hell
pet peeves arise with ever more frequency
from increased unpleasant encroachments
along this very narrow street
some young hoodlum
left trash scattered on property
that blew everywhere pell mell
but also parks a slew of cars up and down
both sides of this narrow thoroughfare
blithely co-opting an unused driveway
by an elderly lady who lives alone
oh, or a male friend of his
who guns the engine of a rosey roadster
at the crack of dawn
and when confronted blurted out
“i gotta do what i gotta do”
these complaints, i feel a need
(albeit anonymously)
this doddering soldier
of misfortune doth wish to tell
hoping the police can crack down
e’en if they need (billy me) to be idle
voicing rebellious yell!
address and name withheld on request
on account to avoid getting
preyed upon via ruffian's quest
so…please do not misperceive me a pest
but feel grateful (before
being dead) to clear me chest
only a concerned citizen kane at best
and a harmless curmudgeon i attest!
At the heart of the gristmill in common
is the millstone:
A matched pair of matched round stones, one over the other.
Below is a bed-stone base, abeyant and prone
Above is the runner whetstone,
honed to grind grain
to grist fine flour.
The bed-stone 'tis convex,
the runner stone 'tis concave,
together they form a grasp cup of hands
channeling the ground grist
out as grain is crushed
and ground to powder flour.
The power of the gristmill
is a treadmill water wheel.
Water in common,
driving a gristmill in common,
to the tragedy of the commons.
Failure in inevitable,
It is a necessity in disguise
It is to learn,unlearn and relearn
It is to teach lessons of life.
Failure in all spheres,
Be it love or career
Be it family or desire.
It is a stepping stone.
That darkness revives in you
The spirit to rise,
The spirit to fight,
The spirit to fight back again.
It is that Whetstone ,
That can ignite a life.
It brings you closer to yourself,
To bring out the best in you.
The paring knife of winter
undams the dense brown
blood. Asps awaken and seethe—.
Twining stems sweat,
Irregular coralla dance
around your feet, pray at your altar.
Children of the soil, meek
and mirthless—no currency
save the smooth skin of spring.
Flexous philosophies, grown
splendidly in the shade
do not flower well in sunlight.
Black axillaries, soft feather!
Cower in the green heat,
pull away in kindness.
The slate gray scrape of whetstone
Sunlight sharpens her blade—
a smile carved through the clouds.
Woodbury, new jersey home
to me self since birth
my very late mother
(bless her long departed soul)
slaved and toiled
per accursed penury and dearth
tried her darnedest
to create happiness while on earth
would be livid with rage
at lack of neighbors’ manners
if spirit of said deceased
returned to this home and hearth
so let this poem serve
as springboard to communicate anger
for whatever
this literary effort might be worth.
this aged body of mine creaky,
nearly out of steam,
and well nigh lost track
of countless times auld lang
cos sine and concomitant excitement
filled past and long distant childhood
waiting for ole saint nick
to careen down chimney flue lugging
that humongous and bulging sack
or going out hunting
(when this area mostly woodlands)
awash with fauna and flora
and not unusual for pop to bring home
a buck sporting many tiered rack
caught in the cross hairs of firearms
seemed like gendarme of the pack
now, which memories flood my noggin,
akin to overflowing waters o the Merrimack
especially disconcerting with hostility
from youths politeness to lack
spouting expletives with flip of the bird
to us older folks who cough n hack
similar to staccato machine gun fire
in terms of that barrage of flack
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.
He hones his purpose on a stone whet of spite,
Edge kissed to gleam in the dead of night.
Relentless is the echo tuned to hindsight.
Endless in the knowing his cause is right.
His grip is firm, his whetstone flat.
His purpose honed to revenge in tit-for-tat.
The axe grinder, can't ever get over that.
Old grudges are ground in, with spittle spat.
The sparks fly from grinding wheel.
Spun to remove the scars in steel.
Caught in armor on the leg and heel,
Of the foe that stood up from their kneel.
Sharper minds cut cleaner truer lines,
In wood chips, slivers, shaves and fines,
Cut deeper deeper in, to find the quick that binds,
The grinder to the hurt and pain he mines.
My thoughts are my weapons,
my pen is my sword
My will is my whetstone,
my knighthood,
—my Lord
(Opening Poem to Novel 'Darkening Sun:' December, 2014)