In anticipation of a major
Cleaning of our floors,
I’ve begun to whittle down my stuff,
The toughest of the chores.
I thought I tossed a lot of things
And worked with true devotion
But my husband says it’s like I took
A teacup to the ocean.
If he took charge, there would be
Nothing sentimental left
And yes, it would look better
But would leave me quite bereft.
He’ll have to wait until I die
And, if I predecease,
He can empty our apartment
And live emptily in peace.
I get out my acrylic paints and begin choosing colors I like
Draw out a cartoon cat wearing a tam riding a bike
after the paint dries, I add glitter glue so it has some sass
If anyone wants me to leave my art studio, I take a quick pass.
Painting and cartooning are hobbies that keep me fresh and happy.
I love them so much, I fear my words might seem convoluted and sappy.
relaxed I am while painting pictures; it makes the hours whittle away.
I usually paint on six to sixteen canvases at a time, each and every day.
The whittle mind of self-reflection
Within a tiny bit of self-doubt
Coming from a stressful day
Life has its ups and downs that way
Can't say I enjoy it
can seem to do without it
Just another up and down day oh well
You look at life differently
With total inside wit
get ideas and let them flow
which life has one doing some days
Can't seem to do without them
Once again you feel funny
run around with money
Again it has its ups and downs
Seem to always turn it around
Chorus....
I came to the forest
With my toolbox in hand
Wanting to whittle words
Where wanders could understand
...I can not live in this world
I see the Willow, standing
Strong and bold in the ground
I need no one's help
In capturing silent sounds
...but, this...I can not live in THIS world
The wind whistles
I feel the fragrant breeze
Sitting still, just to feel
Brings me unease
...nope...can NOT live here, in this world
I need meaning
I need good of white and evil of black
But I can see it's too late
We can never go back
...to the world, where I used to live
Written by Trudy Schrader on 12-13-2024
As we age, we whittle down
The things that we can do
Or the ways that we can do them
So we last the whole day through.
I’ve whittled down my exercise
And how much I can drink.
My energy’s been whittled
And my brain’s begun to shrink.
I’ve whittled my acquaintances,
Though some were not my fault
And my memory’s been whittled
Or locked in a keyless vault.
I’ve whittled down my travels
And my need to shop and buy.
Some hobbies have been whittled,
Which I loved; I don’t know why.
My knife is sharper than my mind
So I won’t be belittling
The ways it goes about its job,
As time goes by, of whittling.
The nightly rattle heard down the hall,
The shadow form of a man stands tall.
The sound of chains strike fear to my heart.
His chance long past, he cannot depart.
Seeking my soul, he desires my fall.
His pain, I can feel, for after all,
He heeded not Heaven's urgent call,
But let his anguished form to impart
The forever torture of rattling chains.
The nightly rattle heard down the hall
Plays with my mind's sense of rationale.
Are eyes weary, or do shadows dart
To whittle the years on my life's chart?
Soulless, he yearns for the sensual,
Yet--
The forever torture of rattling chains.
A bird in a cage, I refuse to be bound,
Transport Adaptee will never break me,
I am no rotting fish; for all to see ,
Your rules are like chains ,time to break them down,
I'm no prune and certainly not a clown,
I’m no ugly duckling to any degree.
You whittle down my selfhood, Not,I decree,
I am not worthless junk that you just found.
My mind is like a steel trap,I know the facts
In a wheelchair, I move like a brisk breeze,
I want to soar like hawks to be happy.
My body is healthy I feel no setbacks,
If I have my freedoms I’m easy to please,
Treat me with homage then I won’t be snappy.
Take a battering ram to the other side
The recoil will do me harm
A knife and spoon will suffice
Break the gates violently with arms
It will seal itself again and entice
It will swallow my body with charms
It will spit me out again with vices
Put down that aching piece of log
Give these hands other than a mace
They are meant for more than war
Give it a last heave-ho just to tease
Grab any pen knife, make a scar
Whittle that mad log to a canoe
Each shaving an ordinary day
Look not upon the door with lust
Hop in the dugout after years of fray
The current takes me to the other side
Break through the door every May
But I hold onto that old log that died
The door on the river never sways
My citadel’s veil unbreached cries
It’s hard to face the day without a ram
Shave off my horns to be a lamb
My shepherd beckons on His raft
Lift me up from muddy waters damp
Onto my battering ram lashed
Break on through the other side
Day to day may I be washed
Hour to hour may hopes be dashed
The gate is straight ahead
Let go of the ram for good
Kindly cut the door with scissors
Only sheared lambs enter
In the vortex of a maelstrom, I was rudely thrown
drowning in turbulent waters for an error I bemoan,
a blunder of loving someone who chose to whittle
away at my heart until it became fragile and brittle
Bereft beyond the point of caring if I lived or died
My eyes were scarlet, burning from tears I'd cried
But they became transfixed, immutable on a fire stoked
for my normally tenuous demeanor had been provoked
I was a genteel lady, who demurely acquiesced to love
but it was time for me to throw down the gauntlet glove
I was chaffed by what had been just an interlude for him,
an escapade, a mere dalliance, a rascally romantic whim
I drew a rough sketch; in likeness of my vagabond swain
an abstract portrait, in Picasso's style, the face of my bane
Black eyes were hollow, blind orbs that would never see
that his trifling peccadillo tryst was a brutal betrayal to me
The painting was delivered as twelve bells pealed midnight
I watched as he unwrapped it, but carefully kept out of sight
A formidable opponent I had become to his knavish ways
In the moonlight his face turned pale; his eyes were glazed
On those long days
when it was too hot to ride
or run, a boy would find
an island of cool beneath
a tree and sit there
with his pocket knife
to whittle away time
and a piece of wood.
A good blade could shape
the hull of a model boat
or thinly peel an apple
or carve a name clean
into the smooth bark
of a spotted gum.
There was a world to make
with a pocket knife,
mine a pearl handled beauty
with two folding blades,
short and long.
It was beyond the mind
to think it a weapon, only
a treasured possession
of pure utility, a tool
for hands to bring forth
a creation or to cut free
a form from its binding.
Finally,
years saw its blades become
blunt and spend less time
in my pocket, more languishing
at the bottom of a drawer.
It's still preserved with
a nostalgic reverence.
Nowadays, whittling
has become a lost art for boys,
pocket knives tarnished
by a new age and drafted
for duty in the service
of fear. On those long days
when it is too hot
to do anything much,
hands still crave to carve
things that substitute
for a piece of wood,
twitching away
in the cramped solitude
of an air-conditioned self.
Native America today
Lost is the way
Living from the land
Alone I stand
Brother the bear,
For the land you care
Not fair
Cities grow
Taking from you all you know
People do not seem to understand
This too is your land
Your home
You are not allowed to roam
As cities grow taller
Your home is getting smaller
I too would holler
But you have no choice
Cause you have no voice
I feel your tear
Your fear
Mankind takes so much, yet gives so little
As your land starts to whittle
I can not help but frown
This is your town
Where will you go
I know
You are driving from your home put in a cage
For that I rage
Soon one city from sea to sea
That is all there will be
No animals wild and free
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.
The folded corners and wrinkled pages
of catalogs that were tattered and ripped
From the first of October until late in December
we drooled,
we fawned,
we lusted,
we swooned and giggled
mutilating each page
until the pictures faded.
Sears and Roebuck,
Monkey Wards
JC Penny’s,
Macy’s, Mattingly’s, K-mart.
Our wish list grew long
more than one sheet could hold
tears welled up with each toy crossed out.
Until the list was whittle down
Though the likelihood of getting any was nill.
But still
That’s why we called it the book of wishes.
If wants and wishes were hugs and kisses
There would be no need
to thumb through the pictures
and dream.
Perhaps imagination was the best Christmas gift
~ 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
He sits silent with the old man;
as intrigued watching his gnarled hands
whittle away at the pine twig,
as he is with tales about Gran,
and their life on the wild moorlands.
As he now and then takes a swig
from a large, chipped, dusty brown jug
the man’s rheumy blue-gray eyes glint
with mischief; “See that big fat pig?”
he says, taking another chug
“won him in a wager with Clint.”
“bet the fool I could make a tree,
whistle the song Yankee Doodle.”
“Well, he lost big time and sure paid.”
He stopped, put his knife on his knee,
winked at the boy and his poodle;
then gave him the flute he just made.
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