Long Pocket knife Poems
Long Pocket knife Poems. Below are the most popular long Pocket knife by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Pocket knife poems by poem length and keyword.
Dad could have left but he stayed put,
and he kept his lips locked,
though a hissing cat
escaped from his hie throat occasionally.
Mother would say stuff,
poisonous stuff
stuff that would make a yellow hound cringe.
He could have gone away,
but neither of them could drive.
He could have taken a bus
to the other side of town
where tuxedo’s penguins
and the sequined
claimed to like tragic opera.
Dad had had enough of drama though.
Before death slit us all up,
he gave me a tobacco tin
with a small gun metal pocket knife in it.
I recall the disappointment I felt
that it was not a genuine Swiss Army knife.
I moved to a far town,
walked all the way,
the tin and knife rattling in my rucksack.
When I got there
I could have dated a very nice girl
but her father was a vicious lout,
and I just wanted some peace in my life.
Dad’s heirloom
lives in a nightstand now,
I’m not passing it on to my son,
somethings should end,
not stay or go away,
just end.
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
I once belonged to a garden shed
it had a small window you could look inward into it.
There I sat smoking a funky tobacco and
cleaning my fingernails
with a small gun metal pocket knife.
Occasionally I hum the La Marseillaise
I am an exiled Paddy not a Frenchie
but I do grow garlic and to this day
pine for those large English pickled onion
that the limeys eat with their fish and chips
and the frogs despise.
The shed is small enough
to accommodate several cats
or one overweight flatulent bulldog.
Now I keep no cats, and the dog
is buried in another part of that faraway garden.
I once composed poems in that very shed,
those scribblings are long defunct
and debunked.
It's quite legal to kill poems
when their only purpose
is to litter up a small space in your head
as if you were a cramped, overstaffed shed.
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
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.
On those long days
when it was too hot to ride
or run, a boy would find
an island of cool beneath
a tree and sit there
with his pocket knife
to whittle away time
and a piece of wood.
A good blade could shape
the hull of a model boat
or thinly peel an apple
or carve a name clean
into the smooth bark
of a spotted gum.
There was a world to make
with a pocket knife,
mine a pearl handled beauty
with two folding blades,
short and long.
It was beyond the mind
to think it a weapon, only
a treasured possession
of pure utility, a tool
for hands to bring forth
a creation or to cut free
a form from its binding.
Finally,
years saw its blades become
blunt and spend less time
in my pocket, more languishing
at the bottom of a drawer.
It's still preserved with
a nostalgic reverence.
Nowadays, whittling
has become a lost art for boys,
pocket knives tarnished
by a new age and drafted
for duty in the service
of fear. On those long days
when it is too hot
to do anything much,
hands still crave to carve
things that substitute
for a piece of wood,
twitching away
in the cramped solitude
of an air-conditioned self.
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
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
I bought a submarine. Not the sandwich either, a full on submarine. I got rid of all the useless stuff of course. Scrapped all the metal hulls, dumped the useless motor, left the curved propellers in rectangular dumpsters. I didn’t even splurge on the Captain’s wheel (though I definitely considered it). It came yesterday in a skinny cardboard box. I took my grandfather’s pocket knife and unfolded it for the 3747th time. I took its storied blade and cut the tape.
It slid out of the box easily. I grabbed both handles (outside so I didn’t hit the ceiling) and looked through the periscope–
The waves were capped in frothy white, cresting waves lined like mushrooms around poorly dug graves. The waves were high out there today, their salt spray tickled my cheeks. The pelican above circled slowly, beady eyes fixed on choppy waters. His open wings black against the white sun. I turned the periscope to follow his path along the sky. In a flash his wings fold in and he falls, fast as a lead balloon, to disappear beneath the waves. His 30 mph body splashed! with accuracy, sharp has intention. I caught the spray of his descent square on my forehead. Tiny drops mooring on my skin, the smile on my face growing wider. I set the periscope against the wooden railing and ran inside to grab my raincoat.
Mona Lisa’s crooked smile
on a half-crushed Campbell’s Soup can
Joe Dimaggio reciting his pronouns uneasily
then lowering his batting hand
into a scalding hot cup
of ‘Mr. Coffee’
Where have you gone, Mrs. Robinson?
Where else? to the bathroom
~ Hemorrhoids again
Barney Fife whittling Andy’s image to
sawdust with a rusty pocket-knife
-- contracting tetanus in the process
Andy Warhol grinning madly as the
word ‘culture’ is finally eliminated
from America’s lexicon
~ All hail to pink, plastic flamingoes! ~