[heptapent sonnet]
The Sun has been off, hiding, where its warmth is far from here,
its lustrous fingers stroking other planes.
And I, abandoned to the winter's ruthless time of year,
exist in hope that somewhere spring remains.
The wind will blunt the spirit like a whittler dulls a knife.
The darkened days will bleed intention dry.
It seems that surely all the world stands, tremulous and rife
with creeping cold, as icy snowflakes fly.
I long for gentle summer days, where bluebirds light and sing
from flowering trees where blossoms flutter down;
to dance with fireflies in sacred starlight, worshiping
the moonbeams, dressing me with lucent crown.
Here I await, with cherished hope that summer's melody
will loose the arms of winter's will that binds the joy in me.
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.
Upon his grandfather's rocking chair
on the porch in the cool crisp air
sits a man with a special gift.
For he can see the soul of a tree
within a piece of wood upon his knee.
His pile of cedar gives off a sweet smell.
He picks through the pieces, eyes closed,
his touch feels what is enclosed.
As if he were to reach within the wood
by pulling it apart from its protective bark
and removing what’s inside from the dark.
The Whittler will release this soul from its cage!
Each meticulous movement of the knife in hand
is meant to bring out something so grand.
After hours of work, fingers cramping into knots
the soul held within in this piece arose
to be a magnificent fully blossomed rose.
Beautiful just like the ones his gram
planted beneath her father's old cedar tree, by hand.
Adam Hapworth, With These Hands, 12/13/2013, Image #3
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
Keppler, Earth 2.0
Who needs a moon
for life to grow
by the gracious Devil's beard
a snake survives
poisoned atmosphere
A shiny new vision
comes across my transmission
a new found life
reaching out
I listen closely
I'm sickened mostly
by their horrendous
ghastly sound
We're coming to get you
we're coming to take
control of your planet
the words of this snake
by the brim of the witches hat
we have a chance
but its holding, fat
The whittler whistles
as he carves the way
such a curious interjection
as in the final act of the play
the audience watches in patience
as the hand of fate
swoops down so gracious
counting down to that dreadful date
evacuate, away to Keppler
in a new Eden, we shall challenge our maker
There's a knack to carving wood that most don't have.
It's the way whatever you're carving changes in position and
expression with the pictures in the grain,
Even a shock of hair twists from constant wind or
a rock too big for a root to move.
sometimes a dragon's wingtip bends to grain.
That's after the first deep cuts that tend to change muscular structures.
What started as an arm becomes a goose's neck and fingers change to beak as a tree reaches for sunlight.
Then again some works stay human but less heroic, sometimes more so in their infirmity.
I've seen a belt sander change a fish from fat to sideways and large mouth to calico with just a simple turn.
Sometimes it's the grain, sometimes it's the knife that cuts too deep,
but just like painting in oil mistakes can make perfection from imperfection.
It's sorta like my life has been an' how things turn out.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.