Long Whittle Poems
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As we age, we whittle down
The things that we can do
Or the ways that we can do them
So we last the whole day through.
I’ve whittled down my exercise
And how much I can drink.
My energy’s been whittled
And my brain’s begun to shrink.
I’ve whittled my acquaintances,
Though some were not my fault
And my memory’s been whittled
Or locked in a keyless vault.
I’ve whittled down my travels
And my need to shop and buy.
Some hobbies have been whittled,
Which I loved; I don’t know why.
My knife is sharper than my mind
So I won’t be belittling
The ways it goes about its job,
As time goes by, of whittling.
Greeting cards and broken toys
And yo-yos missing strings
Were among the items ditched
With lots of other things.
Marble notebooks filled with math,
A horn that lost its toot;
Bags and bags of memories
All tossed right down the chute.
I’d emptied out the closet
For emergency repair.
It seemed the perfect time to whittle
What’s been waiting there.
Costumes, masks and crushed up hats
From years and years ago;
Magnets, pistols, doctors’ kits
And whistles that won’t blow.
Dusty dolls and lesson plans,
Cassettes with ripped-up tape;
So much stuff so nice when new
But now in sorry shape.
Finally I called it quits,
The salvaged goods all packed
Until they multiply
Then once again, I will subtract!
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
It’s not a matter of perspective
It’s a law of Nature
It’s there in Alpha Centauri
But it’s also perspective
How the dust feels as it dies
That will set you free
But not free from the decay
Because decay is dust’s home
Yet, our mandate is resistance
To swiffer away entropy
Get through another revolution
With our core unscathed from dust
Though scores whittle us away
Tempting us to hasten demise
Telling us entropy is inevitable
Without wealth or possessions
To shield us from time’s vultures
Resistance is humanity’s right
The dust that crosses borders
The undocumented laborers
Making America great again and again
Flushed down the toilet
When the cleaning is done
When things appear falling apart
Put back the pieces without hope
Of the grapes of wrath juiced
But, it won’t be the same
It’ll fall apart again
That’s the law of entropy
Say you’ll reconstruct
Each drop placed lovingly
Or else it won’t hold from falling
We need just a couple to rebuild again
Give it atmosphere as Earth does
And entropy will choke every hope
Give it gravity like Jupiter
And we’ll know seriousness
Lives are on the line
Waiting for us to fall apart
So they can say
I told you so
Or you'll never hold
Tell them I’m not so
Or a ewe to be held
I don’t fall apart
I am as you are
Not falling apart
But falling within
Back to you
Always whole
In the One
That never
Falls apart
What can you boil, mash and stick in a stew,
Share yours with me, I'll share mine with you.
What comes in lovely golden chips,
You can bake them or they can even be whipped.
They come in beautiful skins,
Eat one and you'll never be the same again.
Their wrappings come in brown and red,
And they're just as filling as bread.
They are white on the inside,
Eat em' and they will put a grin on your face 10 miles wide.
What is this beautiful creation,
That is now a sensation?
Of course it is Taters,
Eat 'em alone or share 'em with the gators!
Eat 'em fast or eat 'em slow,
Eat 'em to and eat 'em fro.
So I'll leave you with a closing word about Taters,
They are 10x better than maters!
Love 'em alot or love 'em a little,
If you don't love 'em at all I couldn't give a whittle!
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 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
I whewed unto myself
I whewed unto who cares to listen
I screeched unto them
I warbled unto all
She is a beauty to behold
But beyond beauty
My dear country is suffering
She is suffering from . . . megalomania
My expected willing whee
Became my unexpected unwilling wheel
To which I wee unwillingly
At the sight of the whittle
Whence forth is my whet to Whelm
My willingness to willingly will my will
To my beauty beholding beyond beauty
My dear country is
She is . . . stealthy coquettish.
Alayande Stephen .T
26th September, 2005
2.45pm
NB-Conceptualised for Nigeria's 45 years
Independence Anniversary.
12/3/20
I opened and jumped out my window
I saw the bigger picture not just life through a window
Went to help out kinfolk
At times had to do the limbo
Wasn't always simple
Jack be nimble
The real thing, not no ditto
Never really got into disco
Or listened to Cisco
I don't need no intro
Too many minnows
Bimbos
And nymphos
It don't mean s*** though
Drinking, while smoke billows inside a limo
Still learning and obtaining info
Got lit with a few Zippos
Off that drank and indo
Harder shell than an armadillo
She tried to kill me, like a black widow
Near the town of Amarillo
But I got the better of that sicko
Too many people softer than a pillow
Got to grow up, can't keep being a kiddo
Close and far from Pismo
Took care of business with or without a gizmo
In life did no good being a Schizo
Didn't always need to tiptoe
Took a ride on a Pinto
Got off and stood Akimbo
Nearby waters filled with Hippo
Girl told me her name was Calypso
That she was originally from Jalisco
And use to work for Nabisco
She thought I was sweet like Peanut Brittle
And a bag of Skittles
Nah, it wasn't like that, not even a little
Little by little
Was able to chisel
And whittle
Music made with or without a fiddle
Life was much more than a complicated riddle
Had to think outside the box, not remain stuck in the middle
Even though what I did was abysmal
Hit myself with a missile
And woke up in the hospital
Written: June 09, 2024 For Ink Empress Contest
“a mute tongue is a slave to silence” - Silent One
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let his eyes, his hug, and his grasp
convey what his mouth fears to say
His mother keeps an eye on her kid
In his first winter, he caught a lot of sun —
and watched the dust and air
Getting to the crib by horseback
Silence —
Through the susurrus sound stream
coruscating crimson spills subdue
whilst words whipped wassail
deep within a stymie pirouette
speaking in scarce slave silence
twisting mental sinews —
wrestle within a tight wooden link
In the recesses of a soft tongue
There is silence and no vitality
spewed utterances induce shame
letting souls bleed silently
Then, fear and doubt percolate.
Silence —
Endless streams of ingots land down
umpteen, rejuvenating, and dewy
signs of trust, optimism, and passion
Innuendo arty souls, albeit poetic syntax
hamstringing people with an arrow —
words convey verisimilitude vacuum
life thrives inside the one with insight
his devotion expands spreading apace
peaceful and fulfilling, ethical goals
erase worries, tears, and years.
Silence —
Lost in a celestial room, in a dream
flicker of fleeting rage
frightening fetching to fall in fetters
unexpected cacophony of sounds.
a wail escaped —
at the beckoning of serenity,
words gushed out forcefully
as if through a sluice
a stunning orchestral serve
was launched —
wonderful whirlpool
of seraphic wispy whims.
Silence —
He broke beyond obmutescence bounds
effortlessly eradicating despondency
and invigorating the once-quiet abyss
silence akin to a servant's shroud
have the courage to voice our opinions
exude confidence and vim
disrupt the enchantment
soak up the language —
let your tongue reflect and respond.
an inner whirlwind.
Silence —
Quiddity of nature resides within
the wreath of gloomy academia
such my final words, pulchritude
words with plumose wings
branch stretching —
whittle vine from the brittle barks
alpine brightness, as speckled embers
as pogonip laden its lair
moments before the kiss perches
snow covered it under Winter —
and forgetfulness blurs my dreams.
Silence —