Long Whittle Poems
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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 —
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.
Compared with us, the kids today
Too little play and too much weigh.
Alone indoors they snack and sit
And buttons hit, while we stayed fit.
We'd quickly chores and homework do,
Then dash through doors to fun pursue,
To basketballs and arrows shoot,
To jump with ropes, and footballs boot.
We'd earthworms dig for fishing bait,
On scooters glide, and roller skate.
We'd hopscotch, seesaw, chase. and swing
And boomerangs and frisbees fling.
We'd tackle, dribble, leap, and throw.
We'd tunnel through and shovel snow.
In haystacks dive and wagons ride,
On ice and into bases slide.
We'd whittle wood and baskets weave
And pennies pitch and horseshoes heave.
We'd yank the strings so tops would spin,
When wrestling, try to shoulders pin.
We'd kindling fetch and firewood chop,
Inflate balloons to later pop,
Sink numbered balls in billiard halls,
And topple pins with bowling balls.
We'd weekly swim at downtown Y,
Our kites and model airplanes fly,
We'd darts and putts and marbles aim,
With lens or flint set twigs aflame.
We'd sneak beneath the sideshow tents,
Climb ropes and poles and chain link fence.
We'd hike and camp with scouting troops,
Rotate our hips in hula hoops.
We garden weeded, hosed, and tilled,
We'd soap box car and treehouse build,
At picnics joined the tug-of-war,
And barefoot romp when rain would pour.
We raced on stilts and pogo sticks,
Made pies of mud, our pets taught tricks,
Were paper, pin, and altar boys,
Ignored complaints of too much noise.
For caddie tips, we'd golf bags lug;
To jukebox records, jitterbug.
We'd carpets beat, played kick-the-can,
Collected rocks, and errands ran.
To school and back on foot we tread,
Down steepest hills and alleys sled,
Played pitch-and-catch in yard with Dad,
Pushed mower that no motor had.
We'd rake the leaves and chestnuts crack
And toddlers carry piggyback.
With feather pillows fight in bed,
Our cap guns fire, and fall down dead.
We'd wildly flail at punching bag
And batted balls and passes snag.
We'd zig and zag, avoiding tag,
Till tuckered out, we'd homeward drag.
No trophies or applause we'd get.
Our play was real, not internet.
To kids today, I this advise:
Get off your butts and exercise!
~ Shown to me here, as it is one now known by me to be the very beauty of His generous
character. The one
seen shining, on the no truer notions of his.
Known now by me as well to be alive, and well, and faithfully thriving, and willingly evolving within the
generous opening, of his tiny little heart.
The one telling the story of the sweetness of His simple passion and desire for God and of the peaceful
utterance and perfect example.
(For all to embrace...) Of his selfless humility, and being myself in love with God and being overwhelmed and
forever touched by this and by His presence. ~
~ So in awe of Him, and being so relieved. I begin to cry... As in an new way I begin again, to marvel, and
again. I am left here... In complete abandon. ~
~ And so... so amid this tender moment with Him... I arrive home with family and little Jamie here today. The
very same way that I left, and so I reckon... ~
~ I reckon I'll go out, about a small bit to roam and wander for a while and dream of this glorious life. ~
~ Yep! The one that is being sown for me and so very sweetly proposed, through the love of God,
the one I have faithfully and wholeheartedly accepted now, and have been honestly granted I find! (((
Here.)))
Amidst the precious love of my two wonderful children and gracious wife, ( and amid the ever fervent and
fledgling hope and
certain and ever endearing honestly tender, peaceful offering of His. ) Given to us all through the grace of His
greater insight and loving ambition. ))
As we all hope and patiently pray and await the perfect beauty! Of the wondrous blessing and promise...
Of the glorious birth of our little one Jamie, our new born child. ))) ~
~ Or maybe, maybe come to think of it," I'll just quietly set here some and whittle awhile,
and talk some more with you and our generous Lord today amid the beauty of the season.
For a time... (and yes, and I say,) as I do know it will be for me " but only for a spell ".
As I think of my fondness for him, and ponder the many splendid visions of
hope I have with them and with God. ~
Passion
Passion can be very good,
But it is misunderstood.
“Passion” comes from the word for “suffering,”
So, in a sense, without buffering:
It can give, but it too takes,
For every heart it lifts, it breaks!
If you feel it, then you know,
There is no other road to go
Down that gives you such a rush,
But, your dream, can it crush.
If the question were put to you,
What would you choose to do?
Would you choose to stay inside,
Alone, in the dark, would you hide?
I don't know, but I think,
To do that, would drive me to the brink!
Vote for passion, and you'll live,
With all the fun that life can give!
Vote for passion, vote for thunder,
Tho' it could tear your heart asunder!
Vote “no” to passion, and you'll see,
How truly bland that life can be.
Around you, only gray and grayer,
In the game of life, no player!
True, you'd never suffer losses,
But, I suspect that your bosses
Would make life as drab as could be,
It's not like you could be happy!
“No” would mean your “bucket list,”
Would, of a million things, consist!
If you had not the guts to try,
How would you do it 'fore you die?
Helpers would you then enlist,
To help you whittle down your list?
Would you let them have the fun,
Of the things you should have done?
Now let me tell you all about
The things you would be missing out:
Wonders in the skies above,
Colors on this Earth, and love.
Bruises there would be, by the score,
But you would gain so much more,
As a thing to check off your list,
How about a midnight tryst?
Don't wait 'til you're almost dyin'
To gain the heart of a lion!
Anything that's purely fun,
Should, today, be done!
Passion is its own reward,
Don't let your wishes become a hoard,
Live your life as if you mean it,
Your headstone, one day, they will clean it.
What will your marker say?
“Born and died on the same day?”
“Never passion, never lust,”
“Now he lies here, only Dust?”
Don't let this occur to you,
Find what it is you LOVE to do,
Then you will understand,
Today, take PASSION by the hand!
Alias indomitable invincible
Donald John Trump oozes wrath
inexorably plunging every species
of life toward apocalyptic warpath
mercilessly threatentens world
wide web promising bloodbath
validating ex post facto commander
in chief as nonpareil sociopath
hence... this call to arms gives run
for money challenging any psychopath
lest inevitable according to dead
reckoning prediction of
wisest sages calculated math.
Thus one poetic footsoldier doth broadcast
dire straits emergency, and inveigh
grassroots action mandatory meaning
registered voters must
cast ballot per se
else planet Earth will...
burn thermonuclear gray
rendering oblate spheroid
uninhabitable, I daresay
if bleak forecast father time doth delay
global warming would outweigh
former worst case nihilistic scenario,
nonetheless Gaia will serve
as repurposed ashtray,
whereby inextinguishable fiery storms
approximating calculus of doomsday
nsync with intolerable weather forecasts
if complacency rides roughshod field day
defying lack of immunization oy vey
against opportunistic unfamiliar organisms
viral and bacterial agent provocateurs
microscopic gangbusters
nothing could allay
winning scrimmage play
thinning overpopulation whereby
scavengers make short shrift
plethora once living flotsam and jetsam
perhaps requiring rotting, putrefying,
goods put on layaway
(type of foragers -
reference https://www.google.com/search?
client=safari&channel=mac_bm&ei=
KECaXe_UA6SO5wLh-7gY&q=list+
examples+of+scavengers&oq=list+types+
of+scavengers&gs_l=psy-ab.1.0.0i22i30.
58737.70074..70997...0.4..0.223.1875.
21j2j1......0....1..gws-wiz.......
0i71j0i273j0j0i131j0i67j33i22i29i30.
wnDI0kLrKWM).
now ye might hashtag me chicken little
synonymous to Rome burning,
while Nero did fiddle,
perhaps scaremonger i.e. Cassandra
alamist bah bing away, a realist foaming
at figurative mouth with spittle,
would you believe cautious optimist,
who presents prediction,
while this poem heed whittle.
Yep I reckon I'll go out, about a bit to roam, and talk a while
and ponder I will, yep, set here and talk some alone with God
of the many a sorted thing, and I reckon to run in fun still, I might
with the wind, but as well, in a while I reckon, I'll want to go back
in to help Ma, and but real soon, and of this I'm sure, to set the table
for dinner, and play some with the young one, and feed my tiger fish
and then do some of the rest of my chores, and so it is to be mine this, my
fortune, to have a happy home now and the better of my fancy
set free, for so beset and living in way beside me, by one, the
tenderness in way of His Grace, His love has finally found me,
but still wandering, will I always be, down along that gravel road
out amid the mighty structures of the spruces with the honey humble
bumble bee, bumbling on by beside me, and never will I forget these, as
back when as to cast them, I set my dreams aloof the songs of the wind
while in love I ran about and chasing them with the little jumpy
grasshoppers ever ginger in their joy as they carried in way
within their hands my hope of this day one so to be found
whith them, and in view of God and in way of all of this,
His natural beauty, I could be seen, and as He is the one
who has granted me this time to be alone with Him, I reckon
for a moment underneath the shade of my porch roof, and
inview of the wandering sky's, for awhile I'll stay, and sit
here outside amid the judicious graces in view of the
many tendering wooding leaf and many effervescent
flower blooms and take this time and a sharpened
hand in this very simple pleasure
as well and remain right here, on this
porch, in my easy chair, and rock amid this
simple wood awhile and whittle my stick, for I reckon real
soon, this time alone with Him, well it'll be all gone, but it'll
be all mine and a brighter hope for another time, yes a brighter
hope for me, another time, on another day with Him, I reckon...
There was a fussy old toad, yes; some might call him, a curmudgeon, at soul.
When his ladylove died, he took it in stride, and sought someone else to pester.
Eventually, he came to our lake, and jumped on the Troll Bridge, quite blazon.
Trouble in his eyes, he met the trolls, eye for eye, and with strength, blustered.
“I’m King of the Hill”, he spat out, ignoring the clubs and frowns… all about.
Grandpa Troll looked at the toad, and got ready to do battle, quickly…at that.
I chimed in, “They’re renters my dear. You’ll have to fight me, it’s clear. So dropout.”
“And I’m too worn out, for a silly old toad, who jumps like a gnat, now, scat.”
“I’ll have this bridge”, he said, “I’ll fight you anywhere, so be very, greatly, prepared.”
“I’m worn-out”, I said, “But battle we will. I’ll win! So look where you tread, instead.”
I said,“You challenged me first, so I’ll pick the test, you’ll play Grandpa Troll at Chess”.
Amazement filled the toads eyes, but to my surprise, he took the bait. Rather smart.
Now Grandpa Troll is a whittler. “I’ll commission your own home bridge, if he loses.”
“At the end of the lake, you’ll have a home place. If you lose, you’ll learn to whittle!”
The old toad looked me over, and with a frown, then ask, “What good is whittling?”
“You could make a chess board like no other, Toads verses Trolls, in war forever!”
He agreed that was quite a stake! And knew he couldn’t lose, the old reprobate!
Still he haggled, to strike a better bargain, and he Hee Hawed around for more.
Now, Grandpa Troll had never lost a game. Still we upped the ante, just the same.
“If you lose, I’ll build you a home bridge… if you teach the youngun’s, chess, instead.”
Now, he was sold! So off they did go, playing chess and whittling, by the seasons.
You know, I’m trying to be a writer, but the interruptions seem to always get harder!
So as you can see… With situations and things such as these …
I’ll just have to keep trying harder, and harder…
Hanging out new to the scene
So often wonder what it means
As I sit in front of the worlds screen
Started in on ...Googling
I typed in a single word
Pressed enter for the Google search
Took me down the path absurd
Where all the lines were blurred
From there I ventured off the path
Wish I'd known there's no turning back
Marveled at the knowledge that I lack
Like how to whittle your own baseball bat
Just in case you're wondering
Midgets don't melt in the rain
Who doesn't think that that's insane
As I dive deeper into Googling
The art of bathing a Hindu rat
Skinning a two headed Siamese cat
The taking of the perfect nap
Standing up while keeping your lap intact
How to delicately pierce a Rhino's ear
Dressing up then down a deer
50 different ways a man can cheer
While toasting his favorite Micro beer
Abstract art using cotton balls
How to paint between the lines on a paisley walls
Teaching Yankees how the South says ya'll
Lost episodes of the show called Lost
Food served up on the worlds menus
Even specialties from Timbuktu
Why the sea is green and the sky is blue
As my googling madness continues
More art work this time with the jam of toes
How to pick your friends but never your friends nose
Cleaning of the house without a stitch of clothes
The whole time being careful with the vacuum hose
80's Hairbands I used to like
That now know what bald feels like
Making a homemade Hindenburg kite
One that lands this time
How to handle midlife like a man
Taking a survey of what you could have been
Raising Spider Monkey's in the comfort of your den
As I keep on Googling
I now find myself Googling out in front
As I'm Googling behind
Googling up as I'm Googling down
Google left and Google right
I've learned how to gargle Google
That's a well known Google fact
And if you don't believe me
You can to Google that
MH
to be a single woman in
america & aging to boot,
one must have breasts that sing to
the air (that never fall, that never
sag, that never do anything but
what the magazines show on
their covers).
to be a single woman in america
& aging, one must have an ass that
is firm (never dropping, never getting
too big, never getting too small,
always looking perfect in the tightest
of clothes, never doing a thing but
what the magazine covers say).
to be a single woman in america &
aging, one must have lips so lush that
they make one dream of the juiciest
fruits---they must have eyes that sparkle
like the sky or make one dream of the
deepest seas, all out of obligation to
whatever the magazine covers say.
to be a single male in america &
aging to boot,
one must have pockets that jingle,
that are flush with cash, that hold
a checkbook that never runs out of
checks---one must have a bank account
that makes Fort Knox look like a
Pez dispenser, so that they can make it
rain in the driest of places,
abiding by what all the magazines
say.
to be a single male in america & aging,
one must have property, one must have
assets, one must have a house in a different
area code gaining rental money, an apartment
in a tropical area, a mansion in the hills &
a place to “get away” from everything else,
hidden in an undisclosed location---
just like the television reveals,
just like all the playas in the videos &
the movies.
to be a single male in america & aging,
one must have a full head of bustling hair,
abs that one can scrub wet clothes on to
get off the dirt (or that can help whittle down
wood when one can’t find a knife),
one must have a gluts that can have quarters flipped
off them & biceps that can wrap around
& crush like the strongest python (bench twice
your weight, jump high, run fast, squat squat
squat & save the goddamn world)---
just like on the big screen.