Toothpicks Poems | Examples

Lightening

A Lightening strike
hit a tree in the back yard
resembles toothpicks.

finding a forgotten purse

Inhaler
Dimes
Brown napkin
Three pairs of eye glasses
Two pencils, an eraser and a pen
Wallet with seventeen dollars and eighty-two cents
Comb, cracker, stale muffin, five receipts, toothpicks
Tiny piece of pink ribbon, twenty-two allergy pills
Empty pill bottle
Sometimes finding a forgotten purse feels like Christmas

OF WE TOOTHPICKS AND RAKES

Picking and raking,
Cleaning the political 
Garden of Evil,
Know that while gardeners die,
Rooting out trash must go on:-

only one kept her curls

My mother’s curls were teeny tiny, ringlets of gray
Tightly wound, as if they had been set around toothpicks
My sister and I had golden curls until we were two.
They gave us a haircut, and that was the end of them.

Our brother had curls, but they embarrassed our father.
He did not think he looked like a real boy with them.
I think he was relieved when Richard’s toddler head was shaved.
Our father never had a curl; his hair was thick and stiff.

Five people living in the same house.
Only one kept her curls.

Toothpicks

Toothpicks

My toothpicks are 
scholars of 
Afro-Asian eating habits.

scared at my brothers place

there were scattered toothpicks next to morning brew
where was my brother, garlic-eating gorgeous Drew?
I stood in his flat, and heard something loud on the roof
the back doorknob slowly turned, it was a scary scene
what was happening? An ominous feeling felt mean.
water began running from the sink, hitting a ceramic lamb
was I on a surprise camera? I searched around for a cam.
There was no sign of one; my teeth began to quake.
I left there without a hug, a smile or a pathetic handshake.

let's be haughty and stuck up

The couple wanted to eat at an exclusive restaurant.
Wife said, “Let’s act like we are haughty and stuck up.”
Husband was all in; so they ate with pinkie fingers up.
They were ultra-rude to the waiter; noses in the air.

They sent their food back twice; a chef came out.
He ordered them to leave; the entire place clapped.
Even the PTA president and her husband.
There would be HE double toothpicks to pay later.

Worthy of a majuscule

Have I ever wasted words on lower-cases and capitals?
Laying beneath cool ground spring, waiting in its vestibules
Happiness can be found loving this Earth for its residuals
Toothpicks of this stand; reaching for heaven in tones, sepia
'Til they're filled with what's beneath me; green colors plethora
Flowers soon will be dancing on this bed; just as they have before
One cool soft rain from nature's mother; this landscape will live once more
Against sky-blue tapestry; worthy of a majuscule
A moment infrangible; in my record, no-way minuscule

Weird Wood

Some people don’t hike through the wood,
especially on All Hallows Eve.
Ghosts of boys and girls of good
float at the campfire, if you believe.

Elves and pixies dance through the trees, 
with taunting, mocking, and leering.
They swing and sway in the brash breeze,
their faces frighteningly jeering.

What was that? The crack in the wind
unleashes demons and banshees!
Their hideous yowling will send
even the bravest to their knees.

Ghosts and goblins arise from their graves,
harmonize in a cacophonous chant. 
Don’t try to hide in the darkened caves.
They’ll find you in their raucous rant.

They’ll steal your bones with giggling glee
and make toothpicks with your ribs. 
Quickly now, turn. Run, and flee
before they find you and call out “Dibs!”

Growth

Running around frantically, 
The wrong lock for a key, 
Boiling over, fuming, 
Cleanness always looming. 


Lurking over, smiling ear to ear, 
Small, always wanting to steer, 
“Too controlling!”, spoilt I’d say, 
Always wanting their way. 

 
It’s like their hearts are astray, 
In one spot, you can’t stay, 
Oh, how I’d love to keep them quiet, 
Pitter, patter, follow it. 


Fighting, battling in a “war”, 
Toothpicks drawn over an apple core, 
How silly we were as children, making food sculptures, 
Fighting over scraps like vultures. 

 
Contagious, maturity spreading fast, 
Cough, breath, that’s my last, 
Punch to the face, youth ending soon, 
Lies spread by a goon.

Need

All who lie - need,
creative people lie all the time,
either to themselves or others.

They may claim, that this is 'My Truth'!

They may say,
that this is my very soul,
I have made it for you
out of papier mâché and toothpicks,
it represents my pain or joy
or whatever.

Don't be fooled,
they have constructed a truth
that is not a bit like them,
what they paint, write or sculpt
is a need
and all who lie need to Need.

Consumption

Unhinge your jaw, snake, what’s a little more?
You’re eating worlds faster than they make them
And nothing fills you better than a tale of love and war.

You’re ravenous, really, making feasts out of beasts.
You’re every monster’s monster and your hunger never dies
As your shadow stretches over bones you’ve bleached.

Jormungand’s ribs poke like toothpicks in your teeth,
Tying twine ‘round your molars ‘til gaps and the string
Melt to baleen and bone, fangs unused and unseen.

You sift through the dead and your previous meals
Searching for something to take off the edge
Of the wound in your skull that never quite heals.

Come on, snake, devour, it’s all you can do—
You cannibalize the length of your life
When you’ve run out of ways to avoid the truth.

You see thousands of times but won’t open your eyes
‘Cause real life constricts but in mirrors you’re free,
And your hunger hurts no one when you’re eating lies.

Third-person you swallow your tail without help.
The snake, ouroboros, that endless decay;
You’ve consumed every lie and are left with yourself
And you realize too late you ate your whole life away.

Same Old Song

I’ve  heard a  few lovebirds singing  the same
sweet song to each other amongst the
white and pink blossoms of spring.
“I love you so much I want to put you  in my pocket”
they sing to one another. Their song sounds
shrill to me.
I can  only imagine folding my sweet love up 
like so many notes passed in grade school 
classrooms,  and tucking her away
in my pocket to live  alongside crumbs 
and lint and cigarettes and toothpicks.
Shouldn’t she go somewhere better than my pocket?
If I loved her I’d at least let her live under hat or in 
my bookbag where there’s much more
room and far less itchy crumbs and sharpened sticks.

Some Poems

Some poems’ births explode (full bore), life ends when written down,
their flow makes toothpicks of my pen, brain chokes on truth laid bare,
a flash that flares, a splash of cognac in cook’s pan (taste’s light!)
While others grow more leisurely, gestation delicate,
they lead me through more sylvan glens (where shadows live - a thing)
and beams of light dance as leaves drift until thoughts’ breeze gets spent.

I covet both but give free rein to muse that pays day’s rent
for fear I’ll miss a gift life shares, perchance a golden ring!
I rarely guess a poem’s end; I’m more its advocate
and track my muse the best I can until day’s touched by night!
My heart is this, to offer grace to fancies muse may dare
embrace, hold dear. Lord, I feel blessed to be my muse’s clown.


Krakatoa Kritic #007
December 7, 2022

All I Gave Him For His Birthday Was Toothpicks

I gave Dad PARTY PICKS
250 multi-colored sticks

Wish it'd been a lil better
Gift card, book, sweater

One day I sobbed to Mom
She got me to be calm

It's like a Dad-artifact
Keeping memory intact

How he'd pick his teeth
Now it's our bequeath

It's almost all empty
But doesn't tempt me

To trash the lil bottle
It's become a model

For simpler gift-giving
And thoughtful living

Could be a small vase
For flowers by his face

Wish I had more Dad-things
For the memory it brings

More importantly, I had him
I love you Dad (Jim)

• Short Toothpicks Poems
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