Short Whittle Poems
Short Whittle Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Whittle by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Whittle by length and keyword.
somewhere
along
its
jagged
route,
bitter owl
will
blot
the
sun
and
carve
the heart
into
a
mouse
I Believe!
I will always believe!
Even if I knew
That tomorrow
The world
Would go to pieces,
I would still plant my apple tree!
Bill Whittle - 1992
Form:
John was a boy who loved to whittle.
One day he made himself a fiddle.
It produced a bad sound
The worst to be found.
Forcing John to decide to whittle little.
If music be the spice of life, sing on . . .
If music be refreshment for the soul, sing on . . .
If music be our prayer to God alone, sing on . . .
Sing gloriously on!
Bill Whittle
Form:
~ Posterity May Not Understand ~
Why I traipse five miles a day
to whittle time away
Idling in a safe daydream
gazing at a listless stream
Watch All Other TV Stations
Except FOX, all other news TV Stations watch,
Because all up things Fox does seem to botch;
Whittle away,
Night and day;
More irritation caused when Fox carved a notch.
Jim Horn
Little by little
Fear forms whittle
Dimming soul’s light
Day and night
Crouched in fright
Dark thoughts belittle
Our mindful eye
Thus does decry
Onset of grief
Ego, joys thief
To get relief
We wingless fly
Groovin’ on Rondelets,
I find this short form amusing and intriguing.
Groovin’ on Rondelets,
the hours whittle away, a person forgets
about necessities, like eating and sleeping.
It’s a silly kind of song that I keep singing,
“Groovin’ on Rondelets.”
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!
Form:
Rum tum tiddle
You can fiddle
In the middle
Of the place where you piddle
In a skittle on the griddle
Rum tum tiddle
It's a brittle little riddle
As you tell your tarradiddle
And we beat a paradiddle
Every kid'll want to whittle
And watch you as you diddle
Mrs. Twiddle.
The beginning of a new day
And I have a lot to say
But there is no time to play
Unfortunately I can not stay
I must go away
Only to return by the end of day
With no delay I pray
The time may whittle away
But everything will be a-okay
On this brand new day
3/17/2017
No one listens, although ear hears
Frigid minds, so brittle
We feel not bliss, that heart endears
See how habits whittle
We don’t learn, till we burn
Stewing in pathways stern
Till ego we upturn
Wisdom glistens
No one listens
24-December-2021
Quietus
I am the stereotype of a middle-age lady with grey hair
Working as a preschool teacher
Wearing mumu dresses in bright colors
A Sunday school teacher wanting to make it a full-time job
To whittle myself a new profession
I'm not the brightest crayon in the box
But, I know I can do it!
Listen to poem:
see the seesaw sea
send its waves to rock
the barrel stave wooden seahorse
to and fro, askew and slow
though I'm feeling
skew-whiff in the waddle
and iffy sickly not well
I think I'll stay
riding the bare-back bronco
to whittle the whiles away
letting the be, what's may
till the break of day
Whittling away another hour,
thoughts recycled into knife blades,
Forgive them, they but whittle you,
they shape the figure that sits and carves.
The shavings fall, the hour grows thin.
and when the work is done,
there will be no knife,
no reshaped figure,
only a hand -
whittling and writing.
Little by little
others whittle
until there’s nothing more
while the shavings,
feeling the pain
of each slice,
still believes
that Love
will restore…
Slice by slice
others cut and dice
unwilling to make amends
while the dust
still believes
a glued amen
of Love
will eventually
mend…
© Debra Squyres
I can pretend, I'm at the beach
cool sea water, around my feet
sand that goes, for miles and miles
as I whittle away the hours
not a thought comes to mind
all my worries left behind
my clipboard left
on a very messy desk
right now it doesn't matter
I'm where I need to be
on the beach, the whispering sea
next to me
Poetry’s blue
Like raindrops and dew
It’s sad when it’s said
Most poets are dead.
Music is blissful
To a poet it’s wistful
Has it never been cried
That an artist has lied.
A flower’s a bud
It’s soil in love
An apparatus of chortle and cheer
But has it never been said
That god must be dead
‘cause even flowers
Whittle with tears.
Form:
When lamps are lit,
thumb-downed farmers
smoke on their porch's,
whittle away a churning simmer
of angry ghosts.
Some bury the urge
to slip into insanity, some plant it.
Some clean shotguns long unused,
others go to bed fuming.
A few walk into the dark
following a slow burn.
In county towns,
stone asylums are erected
to contain the fires.
Shuffle, plod and now
I moo in the obedient line of cows
Hack, slash and cry
Concealed I stare blank down and sigh
Shovel, bend and pack
The meat cold slides now off my back
Eyes, ears and nose
Master seems to not need those
Revolt, stalk and stand
Burn through control the dirty brand
Whittle, shave and douse
The Cow in me supports the House
Twiddle, twiddle,
Work and whittle.
You say with wood
You have to fiddle.
Building cabinets
And turning bowls
The saw roars
And the lathe rolls.
A simple piece
Of wood we see.
You have the sight
Of what can be.
A piece of nothing
So lovingly held.
But with your tools
You soon meld.
And from your heart
Wonders appear.
Works of art
That we hold dear.
cracked faces
lacking style
forced me
places
dott
ing
smiles
liars laughing moons
projecting images
of
baboons
book knowledge
rocks
in
the
pocket
brittle stars reflection
whittle scars affection
try me with a spoon in your mouth
plant your thumbs elbowed man
wooly up your mammoth
brush my ivory tusks
blowing bubbles
with your
cracked
faces
?
A plus attitude
Beautiful belle
Cute can cans
Devilish dish
Energized eternity
Fun fan
God given
Hospitable host
Insidious ink
Joyful and jolly
Keen kindness
Lovely lamb
Meek mom
Noble novice
Outstanding order
Pretty in pink
Quite queen
Rightfully ravishing
Sound system
Timeless talker
Unicorn utopia
Vintage vine
Whittle weight
Xx and xx
Youthful Yodel
Zany zoo
Spherical vision
Little by little,
see how fears whittle
away at our soul;
joy that ego stole.
We are not body
nor dark thoughts shoddy;
rather, living light,
throb of bliss delight.
Ego’s agenda,
desire addenda,
we hold in contempt,
as impulse unkempt.
Exit hypnosis,
is our prognosis ~
soul unresistant,
to the bliss current.
14-May-2022
You dig a tunnel and blind it with velvelt
You throw a rose on the velvelt and welcome me to the throne
What do you call my crime?
You water down my wine and whittle down the sparkle
You savour my stew and make holes in the cooking pot
What do you say I did?
You sling stones and go under the mortar
The gods are not blind oh you smart snake
Sooner than you think the pestle will find the mortar.