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.
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.
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.
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
Why I need a man when I am too much in a lady-like skin ?
There are hundreds of reasons, there must be.
The first reason is perhaps loneliness.
Over-pouring. Overflowing.
Fictitious characters of books bid farewell, at last.
When stove sends signal. Real stern. Overdone.
And I whittle down my whistle-blower signals to only one
Why I need a man when I am too much in a lady like skin.
In a courtesy match between me and the rest of the world.
Long story short, it is a long-lost goalpost,
as the goalkeeper went to fix the jersey
On the wrong clock with a wrong show in mind.
But it is good at least to wake up for another day!
The time has finally come, at last,
To start to whittle down the past.
I comb the closets and each drawer
For things I don’t wear anymore.
My tennis shorts for younger thighs;
My Reeboks worn for exercise.
My wide-leg jeans so full and loose
I’d be accused of style abuse.
My denim skirt with matching shirt -
My love for them won’t reassert.
An old wool sweater bound to itch
Now joins the pile I plan to ditch.
I fill a bag to give away
But certain items have to stay
If they don’t make me laugh or cringe.
Oh joy! My t-shirt with the fringe!
I got a gat
that's badder than yours
My rat-a-tat-tat
makes a whole lot of noise
My metal numbers,
whether big or small,
can outperform yours
in the streets or at the mall
I can go big
like a 357 Mag cannon
I can go small
like a 9 mil 'Retta soul getta
I got a gat,
my gat's badder than yours
It makes a mean rat-a-tat-tat
that stops all of the noise
If you wanna meet my gat,
and my gat wanna meet yours
It's okay,
just set the time
Corral your crew,
and I'll get mine
Then start the party blast,
and see who will win
Lets whittle down the cast
to the last man standing
I got a gat
that badder than yours
My rat-a-tat-tat
makes a whole lot of noise
I got a gat
that leaves a silent smoke trail
My rat-a-tat-tat
sends 'em all blazing straight to hell
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.
Whenever windstorms vaunt majestic force,
the elements of earth revise their face,
a flowing stream may even change its course
or yeasting agents alter claimant space.
Whenever windstorms vaunt a scouring sweep,
the earth responds with curling, naked shame
while trees and blossoms anchor down to keep
their coats from shredding in its spinner frame.
Whenever windstorms vaunt a blatant blow,
earth mother calls her creatures into play -
birds, fish and animals are pleased to stow
their strength and stand as solid, stabile clay.
Whenever windstorms vaunt tornado's turn
all nature bows and cedes before its breath.
and in its path, destruction, cold and stern,
whips past and scatters merely pain and death.
When windstorms vaunt a strident strain
to whittle down the music in our ears,
the sun comes forth and partners with the rain
to cushion sorrow, sweep away all tears.
Devices pull at my trigger
coaxing with memory vacant
to urge a splurge from me
without regret, without vigor,
an ageless chant that can't
rise to the level of ethics
or all corruption resounds
with shame the game they play.
To whittle down our passion ticks
their wave pounds as it surrounds
the magnetic magic of minds
until trudging synthetic
debit drain to pain all growth
before we beg our troubled rinds
to toss pathetic aims aesthetic.
Hefty doctrines shape the flesh
with centuries of arrogance from
the thieving classes until every
brand wields potential to kill off
multitudes of souls asleep, yet
no longer dreaming of salvation.
The cocktails inside the needle
whittle down the natural response,
churning fraud from every cell
once hearty and willing to fight all
threats foreign to the host since
instincts get replaced by chemicals
from the plantation owners and
confidence artists painting pictures
of benevolence while stabbing
that canvas of life with shards evil
in intent, corrupted by privilege
taken by force behind those smiles.
Wealth attends as a tool to run
ramshackle as dividends compile
the life force exiled to be shed.
Injection, injunction and doctrine
conspire across generations to
quarry our potential down to hell.
He has seen the bones of me
Whittle down
Into grains of lost sand
Has seen the heart of me
Collapse with the weight of our love
And still held my hand
Watched me journey
To so many dark places
Packed his bags and came too
Saw the struggles that ensued
When as I emerged beaten yet safe
He said 'I still love you'
He has understood me
When I have misunderstood myself
Forgiven the soul in me likely to come undone
There is no more a fitting tribute
Than to call him
My Empire Of The Sun.....
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