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.
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.
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.
Henry started a punchin’
at the ripe old age of 15
There just ain’t no way of knowin’
all of the things he’s done and seen
All those years are far behind him
since a young cowboy in his prime
Now there is nothing left for him
but to whittle away at time
His days out on the range are gone
can’t quite grasp these new ranchin’ ways
Dudes now riding on ATV’s
out rounding up all of the strays
Henry hangs his head in sorrow
knowing his days are getting few
Just like the stallion turned gelding
his old ways have been castrated too
They tell me to put one foot in front of the other
But why should I do that when I don’t know where I’m going?
Maybe they want me to wander forever
Alone, starving, a hollow-eyed husk of a girl
I tremble as brisk wind gusts my brittle frame
They take my heart apart carefully with surgical gloves and scalpels
Prodding poking pulling shredding
They collect my blood in vials and store them in neat rows on dusty shelves
I have always been too loud, too big, too much
I have always wanted to be nothing.
I whittle away at my body, carving off pieces of my sense of self
I was made from a broken mold but I’m trying so hard to smooth over the cracks
I press crescents into my palms with ragged nails
My knuckles are bruised the same violet as the circles under my eyes
I dig under my skin and rip it up in sheets, hanging them from a laundry line
This journey feels more like a nightmare
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.
It's so enthralling to be falling again
When love is the bane of my existence it fills me with pain
Romance is the rapture of the heart
To capture all that might one day bring us apart
There are so many nuances to love
I could light this flame and look above
My soul is righteous as I stare into your eyes
No lies, no reasons why, just simple sighs
You knew my mind was a twisting travesty
Rolling out the purple carpet for your majesty
You pushed over walls, wrote it on the bathroom stalls of malls
And had the gall to ignore all the common sense calls
And every time I pushed you pulled
But perhaps it's you who has been fooled
By thinking I'm worth your time
While I whittle away my life in rhythm and rhyme
You sit there and wipe away the grime
That covers my heart like slime
And yet for all of my hate
You unlocked the door of my fate
And now it's too late
Because it's so enthralling to be falling
I just hope it doesn't send us sprawling
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
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
nectar of life from a distant throne
shadows breathe in a constant drone
dewdrops lose their glorious bright
And colors seeping back to white
chaos churns the rivers grime
o'er smooth stones made of time
filters pure, ancient golden goal
creative essence of the soul
whittle away chaos gray
write the words you have to say
somewhere in each waterfall
poetic feeling of a distant call
paths to journey made quite clear
with all it’s folly, sorrow and fear
essence of a greater power
love breathed peace in final hour
envisioning Nova of one’s death
goal to love with each last breath
It is not the writing, but the subject
As it is almost like fighting to get some people to reflect
Typing on the keyboard, asking God for some direction
For anytime I soared it was always in God's reflection
Many will miss out, wallowing in their own doubt
It is to them that I shout, why aren't you more devout
Only repeating what the Lord has said as you lie in that bed
Knowing full well in my head without the Lord, you are dead
So I'll try one style like using the color gray
Then after a while I try things a different way
But for everything I say there is always someone in denial
So all I can do is pray and whittle away with this file
And so I again begin down yet another path
Talking about the wrath that comes along with our sin
But why did you continue to read being in such doubt
I just wish that you agreed that Jesus is your only way out
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.”
You are the wild flower in my palm
With no stem to keep you anchored to this covetous earth
You are the fragile thing I dare not cup,
As your petals whittle away under the wind
And flit unfettered in the air;
Exaggerated fear leaves my fingers numb
Hungry need leaves my fingers twitching
And my hand is paralyzed by turmoil
As every breath of wind takes another petal from me
And brings to my lungs, my chest and my heart
An overwhelming scent of need-
You are the wild beauty in my palm
And I dare not hold you to my chest
For I fear to crush you
To know first hand
That caged beauty, is beauty no more.
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
nectar of life from a distant throne
shadows breathe in a constant drone
dewdrops lose their glorious bright
And colors seeping back to white
chaos churns the rivers grime
o'er smooth stones made of time
filters pure, ancient golden goal
creative essence of the soul
whittle away chaos gray
write the words you have to say
somewhere in each waterfall
poetic feeling of a distant call
paths to journey made quite clear
with all it’s folly, sorrow and fear
essence of a greater power
love breathed peace in final hour
envisioning Nova of one’s death
goal to love with each last breath
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