Best Whittled Poems
Shawled against
the damp night chill,
she waits
slumped low,
crumbled
in her favorite chair.
Old and tired
she waits.
Eyes, once bright,
cast a milky stare
blind to all
but distant memories
and moments carved
treasured wooden dolls
faces and form
now whittled away
unrecognizable.
Lines and furrows etch
the frail countenance
struggling in vain to see
a fast approaching
destiny.
Daylight dims as twilight fades,
and lurking in the corner there,
A Dark Shadow
smiles. . . . .
as the old woman waits
Alone.
Categories:
whittled, age, death, old, woman,
Form:
Free verse
Then, he knew why he must hew
old memories from marble-
emotions quarried from heart's slew-
Oblique fight with his faith's garble
Cut block unfolds Christ, enthroned
on mother's lap- death sleep supine...
Sculptor's concepts cast in stone,
art wrestles with thoughts divine.
And sorrow, stilled in her young face,
speaks truth of words kept in her heart-
mother, son, distilled in saving grace,
sacred words saved in graven art.
A pity, the piety
so few true onlookers saw...
Revealed in society-
few look on In devoted awe.
II
Now she knows why she must express
emotions whittled away, and smoothed
from quarried heart's deep distress-
The process leaves her soothed...
Such feelings are not cast in stone-
Warmly carved in reflective marble, maybe,
as he wrestled with tempestuous thoughts
burning, guiding hands that draped
unmoving drapes over motionless shapes,
shaping faith that cannot be bought.
And the tenderness on her gentle face
belies the hurt of curse's sword driven
straight through her mother heart...all trace
of ancient prophecy hidden.
Till truth, preserved, be told.
Had he not told them many times
he would return, come back to life?
And that word was kept, unfailing.
And the stone was moved, revealing...
Posted: 22nd April 2019.
Note: I am totally in awe of the stupendous sculptures produced over the centuries.
Miraculous as they are, I believe in greater miracles, the resurrection of Christ being just that.
I am also a mother of two grown up sons.
My little miracles...<3 <3
Luke 2:25-35. Luke 24:1-8
Categories:
whittled, appreciation, art, devotion, jesus,
Form:
Alliteration
Eight Word Challenge – After the Thrill is Gone
Like an exotic orchid in the glow
of moonbeams, I unfolded
vulnerable petals, inviting you in.
And even radiant rainbows would exult
in the opulence of our love.
But loving you was a roller coaster ride…
a ride you enjoyed; but the vicarious
thrill of waltzing on the edge of
an emotional chasm whittled away at my heart.
Now the thrill of the ride is gone,
and silken smiles on your satin lips
make a mockery of my feelings for you.
The impetus to love you has faded
like blush fading from the red roses
you left on my doorsteps last night.
Those heartbreaking red symbols of love,
I thrashed them; and their bruised petals
now adorn the garbage can in my backyard.
For they only multiplied my pain,
the pain you chiseled into my heart,
a heart still raw and deeply scarred...
after the thrill is gone.
09-02-2018
Contest: Eight Word Challenge – 8 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: John Hamilton
Placement: 3rd
8 words: vicarious, chasm, exult, opulence, silken, mockery, impetus, adorn
Categories:
whittled, lost love, sad love,
Form:
Free verse
The whittled worries and fears shred my nerves like ants on glass, sparkling red. I notice and bow to the glitterati in their fine silks and cuts of cloth because they pay my wages; they care little for the red-cheeked fellow in the silly hat, whose spring step is more right-right than left-right. I’ve become the cheesy blue veined odour curdling on the edge of the plate, readying the silver bone china scrape.
I don't belong at this party with my ill-fitting garb and my eyes mercilessly seduced by the bejeweled beauties beset with jouncy bouquets, spilling colours fountain-like, their exuberant price tags hanging down unembarrassed, soliciting the eye to not deny the wealth. The verdant green will see two-stepping tonight, to the tunes in my head. I am the entertainment, yet feel like the booby prize no one sees. Must I sing for my supper in my red striped specially selected boating hat, or should I croon like the scolded cat serenading the moon.
That's when I saw her slinking and jingling, a charade slipping its mooring, her face dreamy, floating on a tide of lilacs and honeysuckles, and like a brazen queen-worthy vessel, she parted the waves to meet me on the floor closely followed by a scrum of sweaty-faced boys that up-anchored and waddled in her wake. I sang a croon for her ears alone, to imagine dancing with me under the crescent of the moon, in our garden filled with cents and honey and songs to set the traps with money - but all that this did achieve, was nothing but the wish to be elsewhere, somewhere a little less funny.
Categories:
whittled, allusion,
Form:
Prose
Oh, What A Piddily Day
I Whittled It Away
On Some Unnecessary Chips
On My Shoulders
& In My Dips ...
Written & Copyrighted ©: 9/12/2013
by: MoonBee Canady
Categories:
whittled, allegory, analogy, angst,
Form:
Light Verse
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
Categories:
whittled, fun, home, imagination,
Form:
Rhyme
Ddddddddddddddt, Dddddddddddddt
By
Tom Wright
There was a man, who had two wooden legs,
Who was attacked one day gathering eggs.
The woodpecker thought,
It was the tree he sought,
Until he’d whittled both his legs into pegs.
Categories:
whittled, humor,
Form:
Limerick
The sea gathered her voice
on the crest of the waves
as dark clouds were herded
by the wind as he raved
in a symphony orchestrated
through elements of sound
composed by the air
from his drafty compound.
By the drum of the surf
on the beat of the waves
a crescendo that climbed
with the sea as she raged
while the wind as the maestro
pulled pockets of sound
from the whistles and moans
as he swept ‘cross the ground.
Soprano! cried the killdeer
Tenor! screeched the gulls
as a baritone foghorn
boomed from the hull
of a ship that swayed
drunkenly atop of the surf
staying clear of the breakers
that crashed on the turf
The ship creaked a response
as it groaned a refrain
but the deft hand of a shipwright
would keep it sustained
for he’d hewn and he’d whittled
great emblems of love
carving an angel for the figurehead
and atop the masthead, a dove.
When the wind stopped his jostling
and the sea spent her ire
the ship slipped back to its haven
of warm hearths and bright fires
where the men mused and wondered
over great tankards of ale
if the hymns and hosannas..
had been but, the wind in the sails?
Categories:
whittled, dedication, faith, imagination, sea,
Form:
Ode
Morning Camp
hushed morning sun
dappling through the wood smoke
wake up! smell the toast!
Sundown Camp
embers glowing hot
s'mores branches whittled sharp
oops! marshmallow flame!
11/17/13
Categories:
whittled, nature
Form:
Haiku
Built to suit, a perfect fit
a joining squared and plumb
This and all the more we seek
for life's perfect companion
And then it dawned upon my mind
to compare a little while
how wood be whittled and pieces of metal
are crafted into function with style
The strongest piece of joinery is not the grade of wood
But rather the one that's fashioned together
Two pieces "made one" that would
support and strengthen the other for better
And share in the load that they bare
Welded and melded so perfectly fit
in the joy and the burdens they share
It's a marriage of the perfectly knit
Similarities of strength or texture
the details that make us what we are
mixtures of colors blended together
best and better to be joined than apart
People like tools and the carpenters bench
sawdust floating round the air
Building and tearing and building again
the proofs in the tool called a square
For all the angles, fractions and lines
blades that break and nail curling signs
You can see the heart worth investing
in patience for the course of time
The perfect fit is not a trip
of hope so's, maybe's and try's
It's seeing the plan and knowing you can
It's holding it all in your hands
If your lucky enough to ever find
that perfect companion to share a life
fashioned and squared head to hind
beholding finally for that which you strived
Oh the pride, what it must be like
Like building the very door to your life
The one through which you'll come and go
from now till the end of your life
(For my bestie T-bird on your wedding day- under the arbor made of doors I made for your alter. How dearly I love you)
Categories:
whittled, analogy, imagery, life, love,
Form:
Rhyme
I'm nowhere near what I used to be
But somehow, I feel set free.
I'm no longer a lifeless puppet
Strung along like little miss muppet.
You stole a peice of me I'll never get back,
Another notch on your belt,
a real class act.
I try to forgive, so I can find peace.
It seems impossible, I'm still angry.
You're in control
even out of my life,
I feel less than whole...
That's what you want, right?
Just call me Pinocchio,
Whittled to your perfection.
Dreaming a new life,
in this world filled with hell,
Stuck in the present.
March 12, 2016
Categories:
whittled, analogy, anger, betrayal, break
Form:
Free verse
Day in, and day out, from the ripe old age of five
I’ve take to sharp objects and whittled at their sides.
Plotting the precise angle with penetrating gaze,
the slant of slice, just so nice, as memory replays.
With curt tongue and tireless ire, I shred the sages
Burroughs, and Asimov, the Shakespeare past ages.
Butchering with rare delight, the language on the page
lancing every metaphor and simile upstaged.
and so I've arrived her in rhythm and in rhyme
killing the English language as other people dine.
*Nibbs are the pointed ends of fountain pens
as well as being an important or self-important person
Categories:
whittled, funny, language, metaphor,
Form:
Couplet
All around me, vegetables grow -
ripened by the soil upon which I kneel.
I fan my brow with a curved lettuce leaf
as I quietly study the geography of my legs.
The stilled roots inside my calves,
slightly veined yet supple, are
stroked by the sinewy arms of a
tomato vine. From my angle, lofty
statues standing taller than giraffes,
bend into leaning and nuture my wounds.
Proud cornhusks purse their lips
towards the mouth of Zeus. They speak
in a tongue only I can decipher and
hear. Two celery stalks are my drumsticks.
A whittled carrot acts as my piccolo and a
soundless symphony inaugurates in Cushing.
My Sunday cotton dress becomes moistened
with dewdrops and sweat. Pushing a fallen
strand of hair behind my ear, I stare ahead.
Focusing upon the neatly aligned rows of
strawberries and cantaloupes, I exhale.
The fruits of my labor cuddle the earth, as
does a belt caressing one’s waist. A topical
strap that separates paralysis from mobility.
The house and the barn seem miles away.
Distracted by the continuing concerto, I
ignore the distance and prop myself into
a seated position. Hushed harmonies rise
and empower, as I nurse my gifts from Dionysus.
Purity’s essence is dissected and the consent
of being is absorbed. I look back at my legs and nod,
as I gingerly study the secret science of a twinkling.
Categories:
whittled, imagination
Form:
Free verse
Our local Church is falling down; it’s in total disrepair,
Father Murphy is beside himself for no one seems to care.
The coffers are near empty so there’s need of volunteers
to refurbish what neglect has caused over many years.
But a call from Father Murphy didn’t quite have the effect
he believed would offer him support, the way he did expect,
for on the day that he proposed to have a working bee,
the promised helpers on his books had whittled down to me.
And I am not a carpenter; a sparky or a plumber.
If he’s looking for a tradesman, he won’t find no one dumber.
I listened to his explanation and his fears that our dear Church
without a huge influx of cash will leave us in the lurch.
Father Murphy stated fetes and card nights hardly even rate,
and lately there has been so little dropped into the plate.
And no amount of threats can intimidate his flock,
and then the room went quiet when we heard a knock.
Opening up the manse front door there standing face to face,
is Father Murphy with a well-dressed man who carries a briefcase.
But who he is, is still unclear … is he a spiritual debater?
One minute and clear as a bell … he’s a tax investigator.
And information that he’s seeking concerns one of the flock,
Ted Hourigan has made a claim that’s not as solid as a rock.
Father admitted he knew Ted, and in his flock he’s one,
but Father Murphy’s apprehensive about what Ted has done ...
... until the investigator nearly blew him off his perch …
“Did Ted Hourigan donate ten thousand dollars to your Church?”
Father Murphy’s prayers are answered; to tell the truth he’d be a dill;
so he looked this bloke fair in the eye - and said “Oh yes, he will.”
Categories:
whittled, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
"Iffin I woulda, iffin ONLY I coulda, WELL
some think I shoulda, that I misunderstooda
cause my brains made of wooda!" said Pinocchio.
"A toy's life's sublime without thought of rhyme
we dances ta chimes , we've plenty of time
an alway in our prime !" Pinocchio said.
"But, ta be a boy , the real McCoy"
he said real coy, I'd really enjoy
the Hoi polloi," said Pinocchio.
Gepetto sat with his wine as string he did twine
and pondered his line for he was kind,
then spoke his mind and he said ...
"My little wooda boy, now's notta the season,
we're freezin'listen to Papa's reason," he said
"God says it's treason and it's His laws we be pleasin'
so getta to your bed!"
Wood whittlin' rose spittle and words noncommittal,
he sighed, just a little
and said with voice brittle, "My son ...
Maybe tomorrow you'll sprout and I'll route
you a new pair of shoes to wear out and about
you'll be handsome no doubt."
The toy slept and Geppetto whittled.
Of the matter he prattered for he wished not to shatter the boys dream to tatters, he was
mad as a hatter, it seems?
The hall clock did chime midnight, a cricket didclimb
the workbench to chatter a soft mime sublime.
Gepetto did not notice at least for some time!
Jimmy Cricket was his name; he told old Geppetto
a wee green sage from a Golden book's page
and the meadow. [They were the rage!]
They helped to make boy toys for life on the stage
and this is how Pinocchio's life was engaged!
woulda
coulda
shoulda
misunderstooda
wooda
sublime
rhyme
chimes
prime
time
enjoy
coy
boy
McCoy
Hoi polloi
twine
kind
line
wine
mind
reason
season
treason
freezin'
pleasin'
brittle
little
spittle
noncommittal
whittlin'
out
about
route
sprout
doubt.
hatter
shatter
prater
matter
tatter
chime
mime
sublime
climb
time
page
sage
stage
engage
rage
Categories:
whittled, fun,
Form:
Verse