Short Pocket Knife Poems

fingernails cut
     with pocket knife
        dirt too deep
          to scrape
       his grandson
             held
       his thumb
         like a warm
               wooden toy...

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i could calmly
spread open my
hand and take the

knife pulled
from my heart
then quickly play

a game of
pocket knife
and slight of hand

actually
to be exact
fingers spread

it's not
slight of
hand but 

mumblypeg...

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Driving in my combie,
I see a zombie.
He was dead,
Like the radio had said.
Running for my life,
With only a pocket knife.
Although the end is near,
The world has no fear.
Zombies eat brains,
But todays humans only have grains...

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Been carrying one since I was five, to school and everywhere, moons 60 now
         Cut leather, whittle on a stick, never as a weapon, where has common sense gone?
If I was to go through a metal detector at any airport now, the knife would be a tool of mass
destruction!...

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With a pocket knife, he
whittles wood--life in a
wicker chair on his porch.
Willow in yard, breezes
wave this fine tree, planted
when his girl was five.  He
weeps--wonders where she's gone.


     Written 5/10/21
     for Kim Merryman's contest
     "W" Pleiades
     WON THIRD PLACE...

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My favorite get-away throughout my life 
Deep in the forest is a raging river 
With my fishing pole, some hooks, and pocket knife 
I catch rainbow trout and fill up my quiver 
All alone, no children, not even my wife 
My lovely secret hide out, none knew whither 
Eight miles of long and winding paths I travel 
To this place where I let my thoughts unravel...

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in the back of the room he leans on his side
hand in his pocket like theres nothing to hide
but a pocket knife and a clever disguise
watching me watch him, both deeply deprived

red strokes in his eyes like hes always high
his head full of truth and his mouth filled with lies
a bloody c ondom in his trash bag at home
and a girl wrapped in there with broken bones...

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Under divinities shadow,
Rests the tree of life.
With aromatic branches,
Dissected by a pocket knife.

Medicinal veins lushly flow,
Carrying remedial cures.
A verdant daze ensues,
As romantic buds allure.

Poetic smoke…recites,
The stanzas of cannabis trees.
As healthy lungs exclaim,
The power of curative leaves.




_______________________
Inspired by a Lucky Lopez!!!...

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With a small blue pocket knife
Willem whittles wood, fashions
simple dolls.  His old-age life
consists of morning rations:
stale bread, coffee, a few
almonds, apples he portions
into quarters saving two
for the old gray mare.  Today
cool delta breezes flow through
an unkempt yard; two willows sway.
Willem says his life's okay.
Staring out across the lawn
he sighs--wonders where it's gone....

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I cry hysterically
and scream at the sky.
"Come on, God! Do it! Just let me die!"
I fall to me knees
and start punching the ground.
Wow.. I'm pretty screwed all around.
All I ever wanted was a normal life.
Now my mother as to hide
my pocket knife...
I collapse on my bed and scream...
Why is God so mean?!?!
What did I do to deserve it all??
Will my life get better?
Or am I destined to fall...?...

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Flame and ash light the sky.
My little heart leaps so high.
  Fire is beautiful most powerful of all.
Only the wisest can control her and not fall.
    Flame and ash fill the sky.
A happy tear fills my eye.
    This wonderful power would obey.
Following my order without a single sway.
     Trustable unlike any human alive.
For me, I try and fight to help myself strive.
    Only with fire to light my life.
That and my trusty pocket knife....

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My grandfather made a gift of his pocket knife. It wasn’t in his will or anything, he just quietly took my hand, put the silver knife, shining after all these years, into my palm and folded his wrinkled, work worn hands around my twelve year old fingers. The handle was cool and smooth to the touch. It didn’t come with a card; no words were spoken–just the knowing look of a shared secret.

cutting through
the summer breeze–
single blade of grass...

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underwater
thinking about slaughter
open to discussion
wanting to play percussion
refusing to breath easy
having difficulty and feeling queasy
hearing a different rhythm
trapped in a spinning abstract prism
wanting to break the seductive glass
wishing i could get a special pass
laying in the sand
newly bought pocket knife in hand
thinking about neckties
wanna slice until something wet flies
underwater
thinking about slaughter
then out of the blue
I.....HEAR.....YOU...

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