Best Whittle Poems
This morning I wrote a poem
about a yellow heart
pining for red fusion,
in a desperate attempt
to shake the fruit
that never
falls
And tonight I am alone
without tangerine lips
or the temptation of apple,
carefully watching familiar verses
unravel themselves
and fanatically dance around
like a final punctuation mark
or an overused cliche,
while my hands whittle metaphors
into a quick-witted instrument
sharp enough to scrape
the smeared imagery
off the sidewalk of poem,
Still I am not sorry
the fruit has not
fallen
to kiss my weary head,
it takes an overly cautious yellow
to see the perfect shade of red
You are the wild flower in my palm
With no stem to keep you anchored to this covetous earth
You are the fragile thing I dare not cup,
As your petals whittle away under the wind
And flit unfettered in the air;
Exaggerated fear leaves my fingers numb
Hungry need leaves my fingers twitching
And my hand is paralyzed by turmoil
As every breath of wind takes another petal from me
And brings to my lungs, my chest and my heart
An overwhelming scent of need-
You are the wild beauty in my palm
And I dare not hold you to my chest
For I fear to crush you
To know first hand
That caged beauty, is beauty no more.
Together we would whittle sticks while chewing juicy gum
We would find a place to rest beside a river green and wide
The skies were blue, and tall grass would grow, and brush against my knees
Where willow trees, and dusty trails and nesting squirrels would hide
With tackle box on summer days, we sat in lazy pose
With fishing poles, and cheerful hearts, in willow covered coves
It mattered not, no lad was I, ...a girl is what he got
And he seemed quite glad, to take my hand, and help me hook the bait
I'd toss it in, against the wind......and sit awhile to wait
It mattered not, if fish were caught, the waiting was our friend
The sun felt warm, his voice could charm, and worries all seemed gone
Curiosity of my tender youth, this world a puzzle, vast
I would ponder things, and pick his brain, with many questions asked
This kind old man, with gentle patience, and a quiet ear to lend
Would tweak his mustache, and kindly hear me, without a word to bend
While deep in thought, would listen well, and continue with his task
As if my words were meant to hold, and mattered more than gold
He'd try to find an answer, with his wisdom from the past
With satisfaction we would whittle sticks, yet carving so much more
When shadows fell, he'd take my hand, the young one in the old
And head back home, as sun goes down, from lazy river's shore
Those fishing holes, are idle now, too soon the autumn fell
Although I tread the shore alone, I clearly see them all
___________________________________________________________________
7/31/11
The folded corners and wrinkled pages
of catalogs that were tattered and ripped
From the first of October until late in December
we drooled,
we fawned,
we lusted,
we swooned and giggled
mutilating each page
until the pictures faded.
Sears and Roebuck,
Monkey Wards
JC Penny’s,
Macy’s, Mattingly’s, K-mart.
Our wish list grew long
more than one sheet could hold
tears welled up with each toy crossed out.
Until the list was whittle down
Though the likelihood of getting any was nill.
But still
That’s why we called it the book of wishes.
If wants and wishes were hugs and kisses
There would be no need
to thumb through the pictures
and dream.
Perhaps imagination was the best Christmas gift
As fathers go, I used to say, I thought he was alright
took the work wherever he could and kept our fire alight.
Brylcreem hair , good muscle tone, a boxer's solid build
army tour in Burma where his discipline was drilled
his right and wrong were black and white, he clearly drew the line
step beyond, by God you knew it- otherwise, you're fine.
Skilled with hands to sketch and whittle, genius with a saw
and musical- Harmonica (Sunday evenings) at his jaw.
But as years passed there came the cloud which we had all been fearing
lungs and heart all damaged from industrial engineering.
Powerless, no air nor strength, a pallor greyish-blue
from bed to armchair, back again was all that he could do.
The rules now changed, they had to, as to what the future be
so life played spin the bottle, and the bottle stopped at me.
Carrying the gasping shell with all the strength I had
fate's wind had turned the weathervane and boy became the dad.
Until that August, '81 , time off for good behaviour
final release and went in peace through the mercy of the Saviour.
I stood outside and cried and cried , my only words were 'Dad',
the weathervane took pity and blew back, and kissed the lad.
For competition 'Patriarchy' by Thomas Martin
14th July 2015
Cans to kick, Sticks to whittle
Blow that jug, or saw that fiddle
Roll up your jeans,Go grab your pole
Wade right in, to the old fishin' hole
If you aint takin', what nature is givin'
Then you may not relate, to our country livin'
Your old pick up truck, a dusty dirt road
Creaky front porch, of your log built abode
Maple stock split, and stored by the stack
Food for the belly, of old cast iron black
If your tired of a world, that's material drivin
Take a step back, and try country livin'
No,you hold the chicken
you hold the duck
you hold the baby;
I'll drive the truck!
You bring the corn bread
I'll bring the wine
we'll go to Mamas'
and have a good time
You wake up Grandad
I'll feed the cow
get us some slop
and start sloppin the sow
Get Jr.'s overalls
off of the line
Let's go to Mamas'
and have us a time!
Go get my banjo
and Grand Daddy's fiddle
yor juice harp's out back
on the porch where I whittle
We'll have us a ho down
a shindig devine
Let's go to Mamas'
and have us a time!
She'll spread out the grunions
under the pines
Let's all go to Mamas'
and have a good time!
C'mon,
Y'all!!
May reading and reflecting remain ever in style
The length of our days to whittle and while
MIRROR
so profane
looking me over
head to toe
a counselor
no - a judge
i’m ashamed
you shriek
infinitesimal fragments
fall to the floor
quite mad
i’m stuffed into this tiny dress
no one can tell me i’m too fat
but your teardrops whittle
at my self-aggrandizement
i cheat on my diet
swallow each shard
now you see my heart
and i can’t hide from your eyes
66 words
5/23/2017
One of five-70 words or less contest
Word choice = mirror
1st Place
1.
My grapefruit tanned
toothpicks
bow above
the five-day flattened
spot
in an olive shag carpet
tracing grandpa Leo's
blueprint,
with one encapsulated
toe –
this is the femur, this is
the head,
this is the fist, the ring
finger, the soul.
I search for any blunt
white quivering slivers
of Caroline's purported
fly fetuses.
2.
Huddling behind the
corpse
of an old hospital bed,
a framed photo
smoke browned and
wearing my toddler face,
watches
his children choke
hushed, broken
sentences
this will be yours, my
plate, separate the
holiday china…
an enigmatic language
that hovers in
smoke stretched rings
to wilt
upon the hallway
bulb.
3.
I am left
the ceramic cygnet,
and an ivory carved
dromedary.
These artifacts
plucked
from his porcelain
menagerie
that I decipher
through dust fingerprints
for
one small inheritance of
a memory.
4.
Tomorrow,
Aunt Rose
puts price
to his bibelots,
the olive shag carpet,
even cousin Amy's
plastic horse,
who was accidentally
left to pasture on an
afghan.
A silver plated glass cage
image of her past,
she says she will whittle
all of him,
from the
wooden
house
bones.
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
He whittled away
A very large branch
That in 6,000 days
Was part of his ranch
Yet not just the branch
Or a tree or two
He whittled a forest
Full, through and through
For this man and knife
Both aptly named, Jack
Had spent half their life
Constructing a shack
Jack’s knife was quite big
With hammer and shovel
To both cut and dig
A primitive hovel
After trees dropped
With Jack’s knife axe
The bark was lopped
To fill in the cracks
He whittled five oaks
And one hundred pines
Yet the pines, no joke
Took half the time
He sliced up the frame
Most days and nights
But could not hue stain
Nor pare out the lights
He whittled a door
Out of an ash tree
And also the floors
Of all rooms, just three
The man ate plenty
With no need to shop
Whittling fish hooks
And felling peach crops
Then finally old Jack
On a day with gloom
Completed the shack
That lacked head room
The rooms were too small
For all the hassle
Yet, Jack stood tall
Beside his castle
His wife took a tour
But quickly fumed
Since there was no sign
Of a bathroom
But Jack was prepared
For his fair spouse
Pointing out back to
A rough sawn outhouse
Still, floors were creaky
From lacking nails
And ceilings were leaky
Details, details
So Jack told his wife
That his next mission
He’ll devote his life
On an addition
And when they had kids
Of at least three
They learned to whittle
Their own family tree
The Whittlers
The stately county courthouse was their usual meeting place,
a columned Greek Revival, and a lovely public space.
They sat upon their benches under lofty pecan trees,
wood shavings on their ankles and some cedar twixt their knees.
Those old boys were called the whittlers, but that was a disguise.
They came to talk of memories and hang out with the guys.
Born long before the TV went and addled peoples wits,
they could tell some stories that would cause your sides to split.
They'd kid me 'bout the pile of books that I had just checked out.
Said I was sure to ruin my eyes and fry my brain no doubt.
But I guess they got a kick out of their young devoted fan,
'cause they'd trot out all their stories and tell them all again.
There were stories of big ranches and oil boom shanty towns,
of work on rigs as roughnecks and touring rodeo clowns,
and how they used to ride the rails when no work could be found.
But the way they spun those stories had me rolling on the ground.
And in between a whittle and another spit and chew,
they showed me how to whet a knife and tie a buckaroo.
Though they had so many stories and lessons to impart,
I'd have to hear the cowboy code before I could depart.
"You give a man a good hard shake and look him in the eye.
If you mess up, tell it straight, never cover with a lie.
Always give a full day's work and live out each day with heart.
A man's no good without his word, so finish what you start.
Protect the weak and help them, and respect your elders, too.
Never leave a friend behind, nothing else will ever do.
And when your days on Earth are done, according to God's plan,
you can face up to the reaper, and meet him like a man.”
If that was all I learned from them, that lesson was enough.
For a kid without some guidance, this life can be quite tough.
Other folks made fun of them, and thought them no account.
For me they were the heroes I would trade for no amount.
The stately county courthouse still stands upon those grounds,
although now those shaded benches are nowhere to be found.
And where once the mighty whittlers carved and held their court,
the squirrels now gather up pecans and chase around for sport.
© December 28, 2013
Memories of a bookworm. Considerable poetic license taken.
The termite culture's rich and vast,
more so, sometimes, than humankind,
with martyrs and mujahideen,
and projects ponderous yet precise,
and back-up plans, a hundredfold.
How do they do it?
Society is based on caste,
with tasks and territory assigned
by social rank. Some watch, some wean,
some whittle, weave, ward off, entice,
while food for all is fairly doled.
How do they do it?
Their architecture's unsurpassed,
with geodesic shapes, designed
with opulence almost obscene,
and altruists. Self-sacrifice
is common. And they mine for gold!
How do they do it?
Hardly least and never last,
over her subjects (all of them blind)
there reigns a massive, fertile queen,
releasing pheromones (how nice!)
She lives to forty-five years old!
How do they do it?
"Otherness, the dichotemy dissected"
The facial surface
stitched tight
photosynthesis pares
celluloid divisions
their inquisition solitary
and thickly wading
shallow and elementary
the dichotomy mercilessly
shaved whittle thin
by others’ strangeness
the primary magnified
in situ perfectly imperfect
petri dissected
through the windows
sunlight slices and shapes
the hidden embedded dark derision
into something
entirely other
encoded with true meaning
The facial surface
stitched tight
photosynthesis pares
celluloid divisions
their inquisition solitary
and thickly wading
shallow and elementary
the dichotomy mercilessly
shaved whittle thin
by others’ strangeness
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)