Best Whittles Poems
Buried deep between the cracks,
a photograph from yesterday,
I hold it now, within my hand,
as if between the hills and hollows
a childhood bond that we once borrowed
can take me back to days of old
Who am I when I see your face?
One glance and I am me again
A side of me I might forget
comes flooding back like summer rain
refreshing dusty old refrains
that come with smiles, and not of sorrow
I'll hold within today, ... tomorrow..
Who am I when I look close?
The child in me is born again
A "me" I thought I'd tucked away
Until I cast my eyes and see
Two chums two friends, who used to be
In your face, a trace of me
is still alive, a younger me who worshiped you
who looked into the summer night
and made a wish, while you did too,
and promised stars with all our might,
that we would never drift apart
But life moves on, and so did we,
beyond the wish we made long nights
when we held our hands, and felt a bond
as young friends do,...perhaps beyond
We sat upon the old porch floor
In the chill of summer nights
and drew upon the heat that leaked
beneath the threshold of the door
Our eyes would struggle through the dark
to skies so sodden with the stars
Our childhood friendship is a bond
that returns to me in darker times
it whittles away the cruelest tears
and through the years, you come to me
and by the hand you still take me
back to the land of "used to be"
_____________________
POET. UNDERTAKER
Contest Name: Appreciate platonic relationships
There is hearsay of a brighter day
And if it does come my way
I hope it will stay
While the time whittles away
There is no game to play
Struggling with life's daily melee
All I can do is pray
I wont be lead astray
By the things that outweigh
Like the debt of sin I must repay
Only I can defray
With little time there can be no delay
Gods word I must obey
And his love I will never betray
For then he will take away all this dismay
4/19/2017
Bedsprings crochet bones together.
His back is sutured to gripes
stitched to gummy joints.
In the toilet, avoiding the mirror,
humming softly,
shunning conversation with himself -
the ceiling drips a sump of memories.
The park --- Frances revolves confused.
"I don't understand."
A phrase with self-winding words.
A slight miscalculation,
a turning away at the precise moment
she turned towards him;
an error of timing really.
Frances whirs on "I don't understand."
Later he understood she overdosed.
He imagines this lethal power
over her life to be his.
Time whittles cavities with calcifications.
Softly the spine of a storybook breaks -
where one stitch patches a sorrow
a spur prods and rips.
When he listens to the hollows
between the long vertebrae of his life,
he hears a theory crumbling away
under slowly grinding cogs.
The year I became seasick
I lived in a bungalow on the edge
of a wilderness moor.
The sky and land
grappled together
for supremacy of my soul,
Inner dogs whined,
my eyes were portholes
where cats watched
the turbulent dance
of garbled mind waves.
I had to leave a wife,
but knew I could not swim,
couldn't drown, nor float.
I stumbled across high wind-woven gorse,
ghosts crying through my hair.
in the end,
the crashing sound of breakers
smashing against cliffs
made me vomit, I staggered
choking still
into a pathless night.
A cloud garden had to
wither and bloom,
toes had to learn to grip
ever shifting sands.
Time whittles,
it sharpens the bones of your throat
until you can consume
the stale and the fresh,
while riding a moon crazed
rocking-horse.
Am I the only one to think
that a kite is such a sad thing?
Flimsy...frail...
never really free,
forever tied to a string
Yes, it can soar indeed,
so high, with the wind taking it places,
almost making it forget,
just enjoying the wind rushing through,
lighthearted
The wind drops,
then it gets snared
among tree branches maybe,
or perhaps stuck on a roof or elsewhere
with its string all tangled and knotted,
almost impossible to untangle
if made with paper,
it should be lucky to still be intact,
with nary a tear
more often than not,
it gets ditched in the trash,
the price to pay for
its momentary freedom
Sometimes, though
perhaps a rarity these days,
there is that boy who makes
that kite from scratch,
whittles the sticks himself,
painstakingly forming that frame,
creating that kite with love
So when it does get all tangled up,
that boy still tries so hard to fix it,
to make it new...
never minding the cuts
he gets in the process--
That string not meant to tie down
that kite,
but a lifeline to the boy
But like I said,
that must be a rare thing these days...
For I am one to think
that a kite is such a sad thing...
Flimsy...frail...
never really free,
forever tied to a string
** There are many of you who have helped me in my journey in writing, & my heartfelt smiley thanks to all of you but I'd also like to give thank you hugs and smiles to Chris D. Aechtner ^_^ I distinctly remember asking you about Sijo, wow when was that? 2 years ago? Back then, I knew I asked the right person--& from there, you've helped bring to light (& helped me appreciate) a lot of other writing forms, just talking about those forms was a blast, just you sharing some of what you've been learning along the way (& believe me, I've learned even a thing or two! can I just say this? I bet you'd make an awesomely cool teacher :D)-- from sijo, to limericks, to sonnets, to haiku and kimo, to than-bauk to that Grook! ook! Being mainly a free-verse writer, you've helped me diversify & that means a lot to me. So my heartfelt thank you for being there in my poetic journey, and for being my friend :D
oops. that wasn't a couple of lines?! lol
Argentina's son, a lineage to immigrants
shaped by boyhood aspirations
diminutive left foot striker
taunted "dwarf" in childhood
his growth hormone deficiency
overcome through meds and workouts
a counter to foes physically imposing
Messi's daily slog of skills
agility and balance
slow grind of mastery to mesh the skills to speed
on the football field, Messi dribbles through opponents
pivots round defenders, takes an opposite direction
accelerates
de-accelerates
takes stock of field positions
awareness like a lordly hawk that calculates its prey
a kick triggered whittles through the air
the ball's stinging centre,
flight controlled
at a goal keeper spiralling to the ground
this FIFA World Cup champion
devout in faith
celebrates goals by a gaze upward
a pointed hand to the heavens
another field of his embracing
790 - Messi's career goals for Barcelona clubs and
Argentinean glory
football awards that roll on like credits on a movie screen
on field moves that burrow into memory
through the entanglement of limbs
Messi's footwork, like a dancer's gift
his sprints to fill the field with unheeding power
midst the bulging roar of fans
a homage to glorify the footballer
before he fades
to legend
Poem written January 4, 2023
august evening
grandfather whittles
the light away
Published September, 2009, The Heron's Nest
Souls standing in line
As the world pulls out its knife
To whittle them down
Carve up their lives
Does it have an idea
An insatiable need
As it keeps whittling
On them endlessly
You do have to wonder
What it truly sees
As it carves on you
And whittles on me
Like an old mountain man
By a cool mountain stream
With Father Time standing by
The world keeps on whittling
And it'll certainly not tolerate
Any back talk from you
Just sit still and be quite
Like a good piece of wood
As the world whistles
It whittles away
Impressed with itself
At the carvings it's made
But if it whittles to much
And doesn't care for the you that it's made
The world tosses you out
And lets the dogs play
it hangs over her bed
s
w
i
n
g
i
n
g
with sinister smile, a
r
e
d
lipstick—smeared
m
a
r
i
o
n
e
tt
e
with awful strings
it is despicable in the dark
she’s not scared of it
it’s not frightened at all
b u t i am
i can’t lay my finger on it
nor can i pinpoint it
that c l o w n i s h grin
it’s e y e s follow me
i pull the c o v e r s over my head
and peek from time t o time —
— at it, as the clock whittles sharply
at
the
h
o
u
r
s
11/26/2017
IT Contest
John lawless - Sponsor
~ for Sami ~
oh ...
a pity, that …
such sweet sadness, yours
my lovely lass, lost ...
do not let your lip tremble so ...
it was not made for such iniquity
it was not shaped to
sublime bow-like grace to
be such a dark
dynamism of emotion
or to be the quivering spout of
some slavering
goddess ...
oh, it can push a word or
phrase to hypnotize
it can bring a breathy seduction to
any sonorous expression -
turn my very name
into molten madness
or salacious sigh ...
but even that fails witness to
the verity of its
purpose ...
(a primal and poisonous perpetude)
for it is The Keep -
the bane of my constitution
the very fate of every
such fool whose meat is but
manna for his passions ...
pray, do not bring such sad motion to
that which gilds the gods and
whittles hearts to
compliance -
least, that which thrums, hot,
this very chest -
my capture and my undoing
Avalon and Abaddon
my life, my death
my salvation and doom
my food and my starvation
the ripe, dewy plum that
dangles a-branch
waiting to be
savored ...
perfection's bloom
and the divine portal of sin ...
a most tender press
velvety ... warm
your angelic wings
your throne of judgement
your vessel
your venom ...
your kiss.
Eve dresses the night to Dawn's scorn
At the other side of midnight awaits Dawn
Watching over the night waiting for her turn
Dawn whittles the time for Eve to begone
Moon and stars dance to night's drawn
Eve's presence causing a slow burn
At the other side of midnight awaits Dawn
Eve swims the night pond like a pretty swan
To churning eyes a hearts a spurn
Dawn whittles the time for Eve to begone
Moon and stars a romancing is spawn
Eve is in the middle like a rose to a fern
At the other side of midnight awaits Dawn
Raindrops and dew spread over Eve's a fawn
To spurning eyes a hearts a churn
Dawn whittles the time for Eve to begone
First break of daylight gives Eve's a yawn
Dawn's presence causing a slow burn
At the other side of midnight awaits Dawn
Dawn whittles the time for Eve to begone
connie pachecho
1/9/17
Fear not that critique whittles my will,
Fear that lack of such may wilt my quill.
Fear not a lonely path in the dark,
Fear my pyro craft runs out of spark.
Fear not golden age’s silent byplay,
Fear that wondering mind goes astray.
Fear not that I find I don't belong,
Fear I won't find lyrics to my song.
March 13, 2023
You know, it is rather difficult to discuss mental health
The simile of the racing thoughts is a swift flight
Swift, and Intrepid like an Arabian horse,
Sometimes, too hard to decipher, even.
I face the past,
and I talk.
and I keep talking about many, many issues
And you heard me there, silently.
Then, you whispered into my ears, “Un the lib.”
Did you utter the word, “Un the lib?”
Or, was it a call for another scapegoat,
with the name Andalib?
My understanding is getting clouded, and clouded enough.
Vulnerably, and abnormally.
But there is no problem.
Neighborhood concept runs into such difficulties, these days.
They are yawning and dribbling in so many places,
chilling effects...
With the metaphor of a prophetic narration
with so many broken chains, harder to trace even.
Understanding.
It whittles down to an empty bottle of pickles, decisively.
Never tried to forget “Un the lib” though,
Never tried too hard to break free, nonetheless.
Word abandons me along the way, cult of own whims too.
Let us come to the points,
Closer enough to the bullet points,
A poet’s life, bohemian, unpredictable
A very fine line to decipher between irrationality, insanity
Nothing more than this. Just this.
“Hallo, microphone testing, one, two, three, hallo?”
Nothing more than that,
not even a one liner.
Please do return to your beloved dream.
Find your imagination in your beautiful enigmatic lover
You may fetch her, even from the farthest corner of a poem
And, please be sure that you may.
And you may do so, for me
On and on.
Is it too much of a task?
I saw you both, together, already.
Wandering around, streets imprinted you both.
Footsteps.
Muddy constellations.
Guided me through. Meticulous coldness.
May I perceive it
as a stigma?
As a cliché?
As a bubbly snow? Whistleblower?
crawling with the irrationality to linger more?
Perhaps, just so, because,
it never served me enough.
Or are there anything?
To digress with any of these?
Yes, it is better that way
Do return, please do so, earnestly.
And lame excuses are in abundance,
It will find me too, sooner or later, anyhow.
“Un the Lib,”
how far are you there, with your two cents?
The old man still burns wood in his fireplace
But he doesn’t cut it from the forest anymore
He buys it from a friend of a friend of his
And they stack it outside his back door
His wife passed away six years this April
But the old man carries on despite his lose
He says life wouldn’t have been worth a plug nickel
If Edith’s and his path had never crossed
He whittles from small branches he cut last week
And sings some old songs he memorized
But his fingers are bloodied and battered
Since he’s losing sight of his eyes
Ah, but his heart is filled with Gods mercies
And his prayers are not for things of this world
And every morning he raises Old Glory
And watches as the flag becomes unfurled
He spent a lot time across that big pond
And those memories sometime makes him cry
But he never complains about nothing
He says he’s waiting for that message in the sky
He says one day Jesus is coming back in glory
And if he’s alive he’ll be changed in the blink of an eye
But if un he dies it wouldn’t matter
Cause he knows he’ll arise by and by
We buried the old man last July morning
With that flag draped across his coffin really neat
He never once asked for nothing
As his motto was “never ever speak of defeat”
The old house seemed to know he passed on
Cause the shutters and shingles are falling down
And just this morning as I was passing
That old chimney on the side came tumbling down
The cedar dock splinters out to the moon's shine
Like the second hand ticking along
A white-faced clock
Drawing in loose boats and green moths
To its sweep of time
Is there any difference
Between those little dots of cabin lights
Strung like pearls along the shore
Three miles across Torch Lake
And the stars crowded light years away?
Orbs swirling with life in the dark
Even now
We only but understand the skin of the universe
The ripples of a lake
Thin clouds aching like fossils
Under the moon’s archeological search by headlamp
My wife and I at the campfire
Measure distance
By the relief of this quieted July Sunday night
And the passing orbits of the space station
Three cycles
Is the most we’ve ever survived
Depends on how full the cooler is
And how many words we have left to hum and turn
Holding hands as the night whittles away
And the flames lower to a bath of embers
To the tapping Morse code of our bare toes.