He hones his purpose on a stone whet of spite,
Edge kissed to gleam in the dead of night.
Relentless is the echo tuned to hindsight.
Endless in the knowing his cause is right.
His grip is firm, his whetstone flat.
His purpose honed to revenge in tit-for-tat.
The axe grinder, can't ever get over that.
Old grudges are ground in, with spittle spat.
The sparks fly from grinding wheel.
Spun to remove the scars in steel.
Caught in armor on the leg and heel,
Of the foe that stood up from their kneel.
Sharper minds cut cleaner truer lines,
In wood chips, slivers, shaves and fines,
Cut deeper deeper in, to find the quick that binds,
The grinder to the hurt and pain he mines.
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.
I was more of a stepping stone than a stepson.
A tiny stone leading to the heart of my father.
You played the game well... though
squeezing a ring from the coal of his lonely heart.
So, there I was minced by little boy blue grief.
Then tossed into your beehive whirlwind.
You wisely hid your wicked side...young bride...
Many times, playing hopscotch on my hide.
The lessons to make me into a man.
Started around six, I recollect.
Scrubbing those greasy plastic dishes
until they were no longer slick.
You knew that it was an impossible task
for six-year-old hands.
So over and over and over again.
You'd plop that greasy plastic back into the suds...
until well past dusk...
(Now, even as a man, it's always well past dusk.}
I became more like your whetstone.
Something to sharpen your barbs upon.
I'm still waiting for karma to change the color of your hide.
Make you scrub a freighter filled with your greasy plastic dishes.
The paring knife of winter
undams the dense brown
blood. Asps awaken and seethe—.
Twining stems sweat,
Irregular coralla dance
around your feet, pray at your altar.
Children of the soil, meek
and mirthless—no currency
save the smooth skin of spring.
Flexous philosophies, grown
splendidly in the shade
do not flower well in sunlight.
Black axillaries, soft feather!
Cower in the green heat,
pull away in kindness.
The slate gray scrape of whetstone
Sunlight sharpens her blade—
a smile carved through the clouds.
A feast of eye-catching hues swirl midair,
stoic fragile leaf a chill whisper,
overt orange, deep vein red,
pallid yellow, scaly amber,
jumble upon bright clad jumble,
earthbound mattress on a grey mud plot,
bald cypress, Norway maple,
crepe myrtle, pin oak,
shed their raw-hewn splintered twig,
amid the waning sun in bleak morph,
late August and September tread,
damp weather bashful pilgrimage,
acorn mulch stuck between the grooves,
of rugged footwear on limp moss,
along harvest ripened pastures,
hardy toilers lay their white ash scythe,
they reap, gather and proudly stack,
turnips, pumpkins, squash, beet, zucchini,
lifeblood to thriving market square,
rustic idyl diet, whetstone oven backdrop,
whiffs of healthful soup simmering,
bowls scraped, hunger sated,
red ember coal fire glows,
aromatic haze taunt the frozen nose,
symbolic fall eon meter pending,
still a buoyant risen spirit
The Eyes Have It
Eyes sharpened at the whetstone
Honed to a glistening edge,
They used them to slice and dice for
Homeworks forgotten;
Rooms left in cyclonic disarray;
Reports unfiled;
Presents left ungiven;
Promises unkept---
Scythe-like orbs slipped into you
And poured you into the ground an
Unripened watermelon pulp
oozing red and pits.
They said that eyes had not
A rapier wit, nor rending ability
Though you learned they did,
As life essence formed a puddle
Like water broken before birth.
Work, work, work ... write, write, write
Pour your dark, deep, love-scarred being out
Put all the imagery, phrasing and thought you know into each line
Craft each word and phrase and stanza with careful creativity
Go the extra mile with each element required
And then go even further - format, title, attending image
Stand back, finally, and be proud of the result
For it is your heart and soul there on paper
Though others may not see it ...
Learn to recognize the excellence and insight
And all that you've invested in that piece of your spirit
Because it's guaranteed in this wonderfully wide and jaded world
That it will be marginalized and snubbed
So take that bitter pill and swallow hard, thus
And let it be the drug to motivate and enrich you
Even more ...
Let disregard be the whetstone ... that sharpens your pen!
My thoughts are my weapons,
my pen is my sword
My will is my whetstone,
my Knighthood
—my Lord
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2014)
At the heart of the gristmill in common
is the millstone:
A matched pair of matched round stones, one over the other.
Below is a bed-stone base, abeyant and prone
Above is the runner whetstone,
honed to grind grain
to grist fine flour.
The bed-stone 'tis convex,
the runner stone 'tis concave,
together they form a grasp cup of hands
channeling the ground grist
out as grain is crushed
and ground to powder flour.
The power of the gristmill
is a treadmill water wheel.
Water in common,
driving a gristmill in common,
to the tragedy of the commons.
My thoughts are my weapons,
my pen is my sword
My will is my whetstone,
my knighthood,
—my Lord
(Opening Poem to Novel 'Darkening Sun:' December, 2014)
Failure in inevitable,
It is a necessity in disguise
It is to learn,unlearn and relearn
It is to teach lessons of life.
Failure in all spheres,
Be it love or career
Be it family or desire.
It is a stepping stone.
That darkness revives in you
The spirit to rise,
The spirit to fight,
The spirit to fight back again.
It is that Whetstone ,
That can ignite a life.
It brings you closer to yourself,
To bring out the best in you.
Cracker-Barrel Oracle
by Odin Roark
The whittler
Atop the rickety steps,
Shavings piled at ancient feet,
Eyes the blade
Needing attention soon.
The canine,
Head lifted from paws,
Yawns,
Eyes open
Watching chips fall…
Wondering.
Dust swirls gritty remembrance,
Tumbleweeds careen,
History’s weathered saloon sign dangles,
Jailhouse door swings aimlessly,
Both hinged with rust of reborn pasts.
Wind stops.
Gritty remembrances pause.
Silence merges
With airborne carvings
Amidst ghost-like sighs.
Eroded stick now but a sliver
Awaits to discover its purpose
As whetstone awaits the blade.
A foreshadowing gust turns time’s page,
Beckoning next chapter’s revealing.
Prophetic air anxiously anticipates,
As carver laments
Yesterday’s memory
Today’s forever cycle.
A mutt’s whine suggests acceptance.
Few hear the silence or the quiet whimper.
Cracker-Barrel Sage
The whittler
Atop the rickety steps
Shavings piled at her ancient feet
Eyes the blade
Needing attention soon
The mongrel
Head on paws
Yawns
One eye open
Watching chips fall
Wondering
Why whittle
Worries
Boredom
Purpose
Dust swirls gritty remembrance
Tumbleweeds careen
Weathered saloon sign dangles
Jailhouse door swings aimlessly
Both hinged with rust of the past
Wind stops
Silence
A canine's whimper
A whittler's sigh
Eroded stick now a toothpick
Whetstone works the blade
A foreshadowing gust turns page
Beckoning next chapter's portent
Prophetic air anxiously awaiting
Yesterday's memory
Today's forever cycle
Whittler laments knowingly
Writing on sleeves
to remember your departure
and becoming a stray cloud.
The maternal touch
of the sky, you can sleep whole life
on dense logics.
White sheets were burning
unannounced in the home.
I lost the key, to open the door.
All I wanted to tell you
about, selling the roses.
Thorns must not go free.
The snake was shedding the skin,
time to hone on whetstone.
The tender loaf was ready.
Satish Verma
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