Sharpening Poems | Examples

What words can placate

What is it they say to chase demons away?
When scars inside ache, what words can placate?
What meaning is found crawling on ground?
When you feel you’re nothing to see.
When you see what they think of thee!

Barriers form and walls are built to shield a heart from the pain in the mind force fed through aged, outside guilt!
The soul works so hard to prevent windows opening to what can’t see.
What’s left good you see is worth protecting in thee.

Time passes at last. No more sand in the glass. No more questions are found when the crawler now walks on the ground.
Cold hearted maybe! But that’s the price don’t you see? 

Cutting ties to them is killing a life. So sharpening the blade should make the pain fade. But when you’re dead to their eyes there’s no need of disguise. No sorrow is found walking alone on the ground. 

Now at least free of what was trying to kill thee.

Rebirth of the Soul

When the mind faltered

Alternate timelines were born

Lines of realities blurred

Rifts of possibilities torn



Truth fading into the abyss

Chained to the unknown

Silently waiting for life's kiss

To shatter this stone cold throne



Provoking thy swarming thoughts

Clawing and scratching for the one

Blinded by hopes deemed naught

Until one's dreams are none



Walls shaking and quaking

Slashing and ripping

Sharpening newfound wings

Clutches of chaos beating


Sealing thy soul out of light

A chrysalis to preserve us

Away with our own blights

Evolving and growing, thus



Cage of ice and fire crumbled

Exile the grasping darkness, fabled

long deep angry looking gouges on a tree

cat claw marks on a tree
long deep angry looking gouges
a huge animal, possibly a leopard, tiger or lion

I envision this beast sharpening her enormous claws
maybe a velvety black puma with yellow eyes
terrified, my hair stood straight up on end
am I being watched from the shadows?

Once Again

Once more, I am thinking about writing -
coils are uncoiling,
snakes study the intricate anatomy
of legs and next steps.

My audience of one
must be propped up as if yet still alive,
geriatric words must be given their shots.

I can tell it's going to be a performance,
the poem is even now going off script.
It babbles; the entire cast of 'Hamilton'
has just walked out in protest.

Only Prokofiev and his 3rd piano concerto
can save me now, his notes are jungle drums
for the hard of hearing,
however, the write is not a musical
or a concert. It's, it's err...

Anyway, it is almost teatime.
Already the critiques
are sharpening their pencils.

I pull apart my white fancy actors' shirt,
buttons pop exposing the telltale signs
of recent romantic heart surgery.

Now an overwrought muse is yelling in my ear.

Dammit,
I simply cannot write another thing
under these circumstances.

I box up the coiling snakes,
exit left.

no way out

No out

A man coming home from work saw a shadow 
 a figure leaning against a dead olive polishing 
his hoofs and sharpening his scythe.
The man said no, you are too young to harvest 
he then took a plane to Madrid
where he got employment at a legal office.
the first day, he knocked on the door 
death sat in the chair and said
from now on, you are my helper
 Go back home and dispose of your parents and their
time has come, greatly disturbed 
the man took a plane home
and the death was leaning against an olive tree 
a shadow on a sunny autumnal
day. In the house, his parents said they had  buried 
their son, but they did not see or hear him,
and the man knew that henceforward he was 
Death`s little helper.

Whetting The Stone

Whittling the point
paring it down
cutting the volume
honing the sound

Sharpening each line
words drop and fall
meaning to thunder
— lightning recalled 

(Dreamsleep: February, 2025)

The Power of Love

There is no denying the power of love.
It is a splendid teacher
Quite adept at instructing us
In ways that completely alter our character,
And telling us how to be what we never were,
Or never even imagined we could ever be.
In certain individuals
Its transformations are frequently nothing short of miraculous.
It breaks down all our natural barriers,
And in the blink of an eye
Can turn a niggardly pinchpenny into a philanthropist,
An obsequious milquetoast into a courageous and gallant knight,
And make a paragon of "politesse" out of an absolute boor.
The inveterate sluggard becomes a captain of industry,
And the most innocent of dullards
Becomes a wellspring of sagacity and worldliness.
What a marvelous whetstone for sharpening wits
And honing the senses is love.
Even its most hardened critics…
Those victims and casualties who proved to be intractable and unteachable…
Find it difficult, if not impossible,
To deny the power of love's ability to inspire
The most truly amazing things in a human heart.

Spurning Mediocrity

Competition ...
what keeps us alive
Sharpening our edges
fueling our drive

Setting new benchmarks
pushing the bar
Forever defining
— just who we are

(Dreamsleep: December, 2024)

morning crows

Sometimes, in the mornings,
The morning crows don’t sing—
Perched and preaching by a loblolly.
Breathe in this metanoia,
We all live for it.

And if the morning crows never reverenced,
Sitting at my doorstep,
Waiting for my feet to touch pavement,
I might’ve deemed you worthy of abasement.

But the morning crows chant my indiscretions,
To the man in the moon,
Too far to touch, too distant to see—
So I cannot tell him
Of my worries.

Fill up this cup with your americano—
It’s been so long since I’ve tasted of it.
The morning crows fear I will be different
When the sun sets
And daybreak ends.
So I hide in my sleigh bed,
Too frightened to tell you
That I am revolutionizing myself.

The morning crows now mourn the loss of youth.
As I settle down to become holy,
They sing my death—
Heedlessness,
Widening your eyes,
Sharpening your grin.
When I wane once more,
The morning crows will say,
They told me so.

Perched and preaching by a loblolly,
I am reclaimed, rosy-eyed.
Breathe in this metanoia.
We all live for it—

Burn In My Light

I waited so long to be saved
But a savior never came
No Superman to save me
From the edge of the cliff
So I picked myself up
Nursed my wounds
Fixed my clothes
And now I'm overlooking
A raging ocean
Feeling the spray
Of Poseidon's wrath
But something is boiling
Beneath my skin
Racing through my veins
Sharpening my gaze
Because the thing is
When the pain finally vanishes
All that is left
Is all consuming rage
Maybe you don't understand
How long I dangled
From the edge of the cliff
How long I waited
For someone to come along
How long I waited
To simply feel like I mattered
But like a forgotten footnote in time
Nobody even knows my name
So let me just say it
My name is Christopher
I'm no longer frowning
I'm no longer at risk of drowning
My name is Christopher
And there is no more sorrow
Only anger
So thank you for nothing
Because 
I waited so long to be saved
But a savior never came
So I saved myself
And now look at me glowing
But to you it's burning
So feel free
To burn in my light

REMINISCING

Just like season
People come and go
With their own reasons 
For their own benefits 
Breaking or making you 
Time unveil it all.

Some reminisce 
Others resent 
Many splatter tears
Some tears of joy
Others tears of bittersweet 
Depends on your review.

The best way to reminisce 
Is to do without resentment 
Not being attached to the past 
Beautiful or awful events 
They are the artist of life 
Sharpening our attitude and behavior.

At the Stroke of Midnight

    At the stroke of midnight, werewolves come alive
       sharpening their nails and fangs, so their plans will thrive

    Witches too dust off their brooms, mount and start to fly
       their features silhouetted by the moon against the sky

    Ghouls and ghosts begin to howl, goblins start to shriek
       underneath my covers, I dare not take a peek… 

    Feh! All of this is childish, of course. I don’t believe in ghosts
       Yet when I heard my door creak ~ I leaped over my bedpost

A Broken Heart

I am a broken heart 
By you I was shattered 
So I tried to take back my power 
By sharpening the shards 
But as time went on 
My pieces began healing 
From hard glass , to soft flesh 
Bound together and beating 
And I almost felt shamed 
By my lack of transformation 
By becoming hard , but then soft again 
While others become lethal 
But then I think again 
Which is better to have ? 
A heart broken , or a mind twisted ? 
"A heart broken ", I answer ,
"Because broken glass is easier to glue together 
Than a tangle of yarn is to untwist."
And while I'm a healing heart , love , you're stuck with your own mentality 
Unless you let God untwist the threads .
And that is a good reason to be soft . 
That is a reason to not be lethal .

I'm being led

#Im_being_led
Invisible chains on my body, shackling my abilities.They said "we are molding you, crafting you, to our own like".They "said I wasn't refined enough".

They straining and enforcsing their culture into my system, was them directing my paths, mind and physic. I'm led into the great unknown to me, blindfolded, fear crippling my fragility, ravished out of my comfort zone, being refined to enforce their ethics and noms, to salvage my life  and those unknown to me.

This dark world of wickedness and evil, hissing my name, waiting in the pitch black darkness, busy loading and sharpening their sharp weapons. 

My spirit uprightened, accompanied by spiritual warriors, pushing me upfront: "we are behind you", they said. Fear "nothing for we are fearless ourselves", dragging with weariness, my tinny body. Sensation of courage overwhelming my spirit, forth I pierce, through dark thick and thin,

I'm escorted, by those whose greatness surpasses space and time.
#Poetic_Ink

Short-Lived

In the quiet of early morning,
a dewdrop clings to the edge of a leaf,
a fragile globe reflecting the first light.
It trembles, a breath away from falling,
a brief testament to the night's embrace.

So too, our joys, gathered like rain
in the cups of our hands,
slipping through fingers no matter how tightly closed.
The laughter of children fades into silence,
the warmth of a sunbeam dissolves into shadow,
and words spoken in tenderness
are carried off by the wind.

Yet, in this transience, there's a beauty,
a sharpening of senses to the grace of the ephemeral.
For in the knowing that all is fleeting,
we learn to cherish the moments,
to hold them close,
even as we let them go.

Like the dewdrop at dawn,
glistening and gone.

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