Long Whittle away Poems
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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.
He sits silent with the old man;
as intrigued watching his gnarled hands
whittle away at the pine twig,
as he is with tales about Gran,
and their life on the wild moorlands.
As he now and then takes a swig
from a large, chipped, dusty brown jug
the man’s rheumy blue-gray eyes glint
with mischief; “See that big fat pig?”
he says, taking another chug
“won him in a wager with Clint.”
“bet the fool I could make a tree,
whistle the song Yankee Doodle.”
“Well, he lost big time and sure paid.”
He stopped, put his knife on his knee,
winked at the boy and his poodle;
then gave him the flute he just made.
I am two dollars a coin away from help
But the clank of life
left me unadorned
I abhor the spirit that the doesn’t scream
Because I scream
To the telephone screen
I’m revolted by the volts of pain
Spread from phone
To phone box pane
The sticky flow of the scent of blood
Interests my intent
Its memory hugs:
The phone,
The screen,
The glass,
Your next to me in speech
But your speech is not sweet
For two dollars a coin
We meet twice a week
The floor is bad and stable
But never when I need
This grasp of horror holds me
And never lets me leave
I am not a spirit
I am not the floor
I am only a drop of blood
I cascade like shadow beneath the weary feet
Of a telephone tree
Like terrible intelligent beings
I whittle away
Like God and his lineage
I disappear
Till the telephone rings
And I bleed with despair
Or a change of life chimes
For two dollars a coin
And I ask to be freed
From the telephone screen
But the phone doesn’t ring
And it makes me feel weak.
For two dollars a coin
We meet twice a week
Only two dollars a coin
To make me feel free
It's so enthralling to be falling again
When love is the bane of my existence it fills me with pain
Romance is the rapture of the heart
To capture all that might one day bring us apart
There are so many nuances to love
I could light this flame and look above
My soul is righteous as I stare into your eyes
No lies, no reasons why, just simple sighs
You knew my mind was a twisting travesty
Rolling out the purple carpet for your majesty
You pushed over walls, wrote it on the bathroom stalls of malls
And had the gall to ignore all the common sense calls
And every time I pushed you pulled
But perhaps it's you who has been fooled
By thinking I'm worth your time
While I whittle away my life in rhythm and rhyme
You sit there and wipe away the grime
That covers my heart like slime
And yet for all of my hate
You unlocked the door of my fate
And now it's too late
Because it's so enthralling to be falling
I just hope it doesn't send us sprawling
It is not the writing, but the subject
As it is almost like fighting to get some people to reflect
Typing on the keyboard, asking God for some direction
For anytime I soared it was always in God's reflection
Many will miss out, wallowing in their own doubt
It is to them that I shout, why aren't you more devout
Only repeating what the Lord has said as you lie in that bed
Knowing full well in my head without the Lord, you are dead
So I'll try one style like using the color gray
Then after a while I try things a different way
But for everything I say there is always someone in denial
So all I can do is pray and whittle away with this file
And so I again begin down yet another path
Talking about the wrath that comes along with our sin
But why did you continue to read being in such doubt
I just wish that you agreed that Jesus is your only way out