"whittles" poems
Schwinny, Baby,
You were supposed to be
my
Bicycle.
So I don't ask for anthing special.
No dark Harley divas
To whisk me off into the sunset.
But I thought we were at least
On the same road together.
So please.
Don't go droaning on how
Life got too complicated.
I mean,
You've got one flimsy gear.
And don't go moaning how
The road got too bumpy.
I mean,
You went blind bonzai batshit
over burnt black tar pavement.
You just
Let go.
Threw away your
Chain of reasoning
Faster than I could brace for impact.
So am I bleeding?
Yeah, I'm bleeding.
And the worst part is,
I still need you!
No, No, no.
Not like Pom Pom pammy
Needs her purple-plated pogo stick
Nor like Princess Paris
And her prissy pink prom queen limo,
No.
I mean I need I need you like
Alibaba needs his golden cherub camel,
Like Ben Hur his crimson-fury chariot.
Because work is 37. Blocks. Away.
And it starts in 16 minutes.
And the bus is really unreliable.
So we ride again,
Guts against the wind.
But now I've got all ten fingers and toes
Crossed,
Two by two,
And point in fact,
Racing down Guadalupe with
Forked Philanges
Gets really hairy.
But your suicidal tendancies simply scare me.
Your thirst to incur first degree burns,
Fractured femurs,
And flayed skin whittles my patience
To tire track thin!
Think I'll
Roll my dice with a Segway.
She'd be a quaint, play it safe kind of girl.
Type to show off
To a Mom and Dad
Reveling in rosemary jubilation.
Aw, son.
We knew you'd land a keeper. That's my boy.
But in ten days tops,
I'd begin to miss your fiery imbalanced breath.
I'd yearn for your bipolar 180 turns that
Make my heart skip that terrible, syncopated beat.
So let's just say,
I'll give it one more shot.
But ***** just promise you'll stick around a little longer.
It's storming outside and
We both got a few blocks to go.
Feb 4, 2010
Feb 4, 2010 at 10:17 PM UTC
Am I the only one to think
that a kite is such a sad thing?
Flimsy...frail...
never really free,
forever tied to a string
Yes, it can soar indeed,
so high, with the wind taking it places,
almost making it forget,
just enjoying the wind rushing through,
lighthearted
The wind drops,
then it gets snared
among tree branches maybe,
or perhaps stuck on a roof or elsewhere
with its string all tangled and knotted,
almost impossible to untangle
if made with paper,
it should be lucky to still be intact,
with nary a tear
more often than not,
it gets ditched in the trash,
the price to pay for
its momentary freedom
Sometimes, though
perhaps a rarity these days,
there is that boy who makes
that kite from scratch,
whittles the sticks himself,
painstakingly forming that frame,
creating that kite with love
So when it does get all tangled up,
that boy still tries so hard to fix it,
to make it new...
never minding the cuts
he gets in the process--
That string not meant to tie down
that kite,
but a lifeline to the boy
But like I said,
that must be a rare thing these days...
For I am one to think
that a kite is such a sad thing...
Flimsy...frail...
never really free,
forever tied to a string
Sep 13, 2011
Sep 13, 2011 at 3:38 AM UTC
You live on the canal,
by the little swan
that whittles the sun.
A sudden rush of clouds,
a clatter of sandals -
caprice of Dublin.
I knew of Dublin
and its grand canal
from old books tan as sandals.
I read Yeats for a swan,
Joyce for castle clouds
that yielded little sun.
But you, you were the sun!
You lit green Dublin
from within. Clouds
fled from the canals
of your eye. "Swansies."
And summer's far sandals
were today's sandals:
time shifted in the sun,
took flight like the night swan
through ancient Dublin.
You sent letters from the canal,
letters that divided clouds,
only to calve new clouds.
I've never worn sandals,
not ever, but when the canal
danced in my dreams, the sun
pierced my foot in Dublin.
You were my swan,
my elegant swansie,
killer of cloud,
conquistador of Dublin
in gladiatorial sandal,
herald and avatar of sun,
romantic of the grand canal.
Let me taste unclouded sun -
let sandals upend the canal -
send swans by the dozen into Dublin.
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 10:19 PM UTC
Weathered, waxy layer in wind and rain,
Droplets detour, dividing on the earthy ground.
Autumn peaks - the skeletal structure begins to emerge;
Crispy, frail webs of skin become brittle and break.
Released from the branchy cage,
The voyage begins with ebb and flow,
Rocking like a pendulum -
Momentum builds ceaselessly.
Time passes, and sand seeps
Through the hourglass,
Like droplets of glassy tears,
Shattering. Salty pools percolate
Through linen sheets.
Wind whittles aimlessly through
A boulevard of undergrowth.
The robin settles and observes,
Twittering sweet hymns
Amongst the wooden cathedrals.
A new leaf is turned.
The renaissance of Autumn awaits another year.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 8:05 AM UTC
To pick my brain
I'll just lay here
Have some pins and needles
It's so fun walking on them
Reeling
Like a kick right to the feels
In my heart
In my soul
Or, maybe my nuts
As I grow old
I've grown more cold, to the terror
It whittles away
and I simply admire it, vacantly
It happens on the daily
Change the ******* channel
Every morning I look in the mirror
And tell myself, "Life's a **** **** it."
You **** that **** duderocketship.
Filthy *****
Bawling my eyes out
With a coat of smeared lipstick
streaking my face
It's my birthday.
What a beautiful day for nuclear holocaust
Good a day as any, I reckon
To wine and dine on a feast of destruction
While the world spontaneously combusts
Somebody hand me a beer
And we'll scale my collapsing cognitive function
With a middle finger to The Man!
I got a whole fist I'd fancy to ****** inside him
This end of the world clock is broken
and keeps ticking
And I just listen
Tick tick tock
Waiting for the bomb
Losing hope
Idly twiddling my thumbs
To go out with a bang is my lone desire
It rattles my bones
Set the world on fire
Light up the night
I just want to watch it burn
There's a pretty nice view
from my back porch
Replacing the stars with torches
Scorching a ravaged sky
It's a party
****** Gandhi, & The Pope are coming
Bring your friends
I'm cringing yet effervescent
In supple prepubesence
His dead eyes ****** me
Jesus wept
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 5:06 PM UTC
There are many unseen dragons that torment me in this life
There is a tiny dark creature
with a vicious forked tongue
Who crawls behind my ear
and twists a barbed tail around my neck.
It whispers bitter words and
noxious notions that dissolve
my sense of self-
That make me believe
I am nothing
Unwanted
worthless,
Talentless
and pointless.
There is the sleek silver beast
Which laughs as
Sharp blooded claws and rapier teeth
cut and rip at my flesh
Guided by my own hand
There is the fiery flash
That ravages my mind to rage
And fight
And destroy those close to me
And the things I hold dear
There is the red heart eater
Who eyes glow brighter
As it steals the joy
And the pleasure
From the things I do
And from the magic moments in life
There is the grotesque malformed nightmare,
That drips sickly slime
And pumps putrid poison into the air
As it breathes heavily on me
And whittles away my will,
Drains all my energy
Until I can barely breathe
Or get out of bed
Then there is the great beast,
Of whom I only know eyes
Darker than the blackest night,
A despair that seeks the quickest end
That teaches my surrendering soul
To long for the final sleep
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
957
As One does Sickness over
In convalescent Mind,
His scrutiny of Chances
By blessed Health obscured—
As One rewalks a Precipice
And whittles at the Twig
That held Him from Perdition
Sown sidewise in the Crag
A Custom of the Soul
Far after suffering
Identity to question
For evidence’t has been—
1.4k
Souls standing in line
As the world pulls out its knife
To whittle them down
Carve up their lives
Does it have an idea
An insatiable need
As it keeps whittling
On them endlessly
You do have to wonder
What it truly sees
As it carves on you
And whittles on me
Like an old mountain man
By a cool mountain stream
With Father Time standing by
The world keeps on whittling
And it'll certainly not tolerate
Any back talk from you
Just sit still and be quite
Like a good piece of wood
As the world whistles
It whittles away
Impressed with itself
At the carvings it's made
But if it whittles to much
And doesn't care for the you that it's made
The world tosses you out
And lets the dogs play
Dec 10, 2013
Dec 10, 2013 at 7:27 AM UTC
Silent cries
azure skies
soft goodbyes
bring them in black
to their feet...
heart skips a beat
when sorrow sought
with white tissue
cheaply bought
and cast away
to decay
with bone and earth
...
and no delay
the leader prays
a benediction
a psalm a hymn
that whittles at
the hearts of men
and tidings heal
warm tears on cool cheeks
that they may know
which way the departed go
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
He would have been an artist
but that being was now lost
hidden beneath the folds of fleshy strata
hanging like a neurosis, soft as adipose
lost under his belly.
He may have been a father
but that too was lost under
the pendulous judgement of
his blunted dreaming state.
He could have been a sculptor
an artist as they would have said,
instead he now whittles archaic
spoons with which to sup from
his sad bucolic dreams.
In between aspirations, as a hobby,
he runs his fat fingers through women's
hair, a round eyed
would be Taoist, wending prayers
through lost valleys.
And for a living he pins tails
on donkeys calls himself an eastern
practitioner. A Zen mystic .
An acupuncturist.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Whimsical wayfarer will waver within wafting water
Waiting where we went when wild winds whimpered wayward warnings
While warring wolves whispered warm wanting wails
Whisking wilted white whales with winter wisdom wonder
Wilderness wanes widespread whilst whiskey whittles wit
Withering without wicked wearisome woes
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 5:29 PM UTC
There are jungles
that need watering.
There are moments
that need capturing.
There are poems
that need writing
and while that is so,
there can be no rest for
he who dreams.
He who dares make meaning
in a world with none.
Who, when all has been said and done,
has the audacity
to say and do more.
He who whittles away
a single aspen-wood branch
into a paddle
that he can use to row himself through **** creek
each and every time he ends up there.
Austerity is standard fare
in an economy built on foundations
that accepts truth
like a ration of which there will always
be a short supply.
He who dreams will be beaten
to the point of defeat,
but he will make the decision
to cross it or not.
To emboss his failure
on his forehead forever more
or to fight the good fight
whatever anyone has in store.
He who dreams does not sleep,
he creates Zs only with his pen
which will punctuate the leaps
between now and then,
when then becomes now
and now becomes 'time to go'
once again.
But he leaves only in spirit,
with his body left behind
not granted wings to follow...
instead left earthbound to swallow
the cold medicine
of reality.
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC
How do you know when you've gone mad?
Is it when you start to question it?
Does it creep up on your midnight pillow
ever so slightly
and drain your life like you use to gulp your morning coffee?
All while whispering in a form that could only be heard by wind chimes
expecting nothing less than what you've already lost.
Infectious with madness
A deal with the devil
A meeting of chance
A sound that should have been made
but on that very note it would all decay
amidst the stars that shine near the harboring bay.
No expression to convey.
If only there were another way
But like time, your eagerness whittles away
When theres nothing to say, no rock left unturned
you yearn
you yearn
Unlike others yours comes with disgust.
And by you I mean Me.
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
she's gone from me!
(OH! OH!)
............what a farce..............
---------------
stumble *** song and the boy on the hill
WHISTLES AND WHITTLES AND DREAMS
the little girl laughs and runs free with the wind
AND SMILES FOR EVERYBODY TO SEE
WHISTLES AND WHITTLES AND DREAMS
WHISTLES AND WHITTLES AND DREAMS
dreams of the fine day they will bring forth
from out of the suffering and pain
together forever in the purest of strength
SMILING FOR EVERYBODY TO SEE
WHISTLES AND WHITTLES AND DREAMS
sits on the gate of the corral
time to get on the horse and ride free
AND SMILE SO ALL FOLKS CAN SEE!
Jul 22, 2010
Jul 22, 2010 at 2:34 PM UTC
My only crime was to have been born a woman.
a crime with no trial, no verdict, just sentence.
The world does not break us all at once;
it whittles, peels, pares us down
until we fit the hollow it has carved.
They say we are too much.
Too loud, too soft, too sharp, too small.
A contradiction they built,
then condemned for its shape.
We fold ourselves into corners,
tuck our rage beneath our tongues,
wrap our worth in apologies
and call it survival.
That is not living— it is simply existing.
But we are not ghosts.
Not echoes of something lesser.
We are steel spun fine,
fire woven into silk—
soft does not mean breakable.
We are here.
We have always been here.
And we are not leaving quietly.
Feb 2, 2025
Feb 2, 2025 at 9:30 PM UTC
But while life whittles us down, he also
carves lessons in riddles on twigs we then
collect in baskets woven from love’s loose
ends. Like how to wrap arms around a memory.
Or how to keep the flaws in the self-portrait,
even when the world tells us to paint them out.
And how to love the way the air smells when
the rain stops, or how puddles reflect rainbows
when the sun shines. Or how to cross the
bridges we would rather jump off. And
when sorrow weighs down pockets like
loose change, how to toss each teardrop
in the wish of a penny in a fountain. And how to
recognize that no matter how much we give
to the world, we must not take for granted
that we deserve anything in return.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 6:57 PM UTC
I don’t know about those pastoral scenes
Those bucolic and primordial endless greens
Unspoilt trees and murmuring streams
I know the concrete and the pavement
Uneven cobblestones with cracks in them
With dandelions growing through
Only sometimes
I love the later more
I’m in love with the concrete behemoths
The back alleys of life
The gnarled bouncers (unreciprocally)
The curious glimpses at weathered flyers on the floor
I love the sterile street lights and the worn faces ILLUMINATED by them
The ushers and hustlers and cautious taxis
The drunk geniuses
The night-swimmers
The nudists
The opinionated
Etc
Yet life whittles down these loves for that of the
Calculable
The
Regimented
And
Controllable
Etc
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
Dance within the moonlight until happiness whittles deep into your core. Live within the passion as your blood begs for more.
Let loose the inhibition that impedes the third eye still, decalcify the walls of salt to release our true ability to feel.
Once the visions open to reveal the golden path as greater, we change the way we wage the war to reject the fighting nature.
To be the shift in frequency be the light bringer to mass stagnation, be the love of unity and give our all despite frustration.
We cannot seek blood when so much of ours was taken, we must end the cycle for only our souls are breaking.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
I'm not sure whether it’s the swarm of parasitic tasks we busy ourselves with
that wedge between the two of us,
as if work supersedes love.
Or is it the stress that is curling its fingers around our throats,
digging its nails into the flesh and thickening the air
until we choke on tension.
Tension that could be replaced by passion
but instead takes the form of a dying flame that desperately cries to be tendered to.
Perhaps it is the distance that is more than just geographical, but the gap that truly lies between our close chambers of slumber so that every night gets colder, lonelier.
What I do know is the fear that resides in my heart, the panic that becomes depression that whittles me down to a measly core,
one that cannot so much as hold itself up against the wind, and before it can recognise it,
blows away like a tumble-weed in my barren mind.
Barren, empty, soulless,
but I, I have my soul.
Yet with each passing day, half of it dwindles -
the half that is you -
for I have sacrificed that half for one who I was sure would have my heart forever,
but in both petrification and melancholy,
feeling definite in it is not surely so.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
BLOOMING
Hold my hand while we play together in paradise.
A pink scented candle flickers under the stairs.
With flames dancing, as if ballerinas.
That dance on tiptoes.
Wafts of springtime garden flowers.
Tickle my nose.
We play together for hours and hours.
It's a scene in a dream.
In which, I am queen.
As only I am.
You are king.
Created of string and Chantilly lace.
I saw your face.
The raven cries.
I awake from that dream.
Pictures of passion from magazines.
Love images of beaches and rivers that flow.
Creation of magpies out hunting for gold.
The birds in the nest made out of spittle.
While the man in the moon sits with playing sticks.
That he whittles.
He's making strange shapes.
They make no sort of sense.
Before walking away, sure as night becomes day.
He'll make breakfast in bed.
Makes sure I am fed with the fire of desire.
Before I'm walking away.
A day well spent.
As love's only lent.
I shall never relent.
Nor repent.
At last I'm alive.
(C) LIVVI
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
Call me
The girl with flowers.
Flowers in her
Chestnut hair.
She clocks in her hours.
Smiles away.
Grime under naked nails.
Gets ready
For the grind
As she gathers up her pails.
Waters and whittles.
Pours her heart into every pour.
Trying to make
An impression on
Viewers of the store.
Wrenching
In her harmonious heart,
She picks out
The dead
And tosses them onto the cart.
Brings to the back,
Never to be seen
By eyes that need
To brighten their lives
With pink and green.
She brings forth nurture,
Love, and care
To each of her
Bountiful blessings
Caught in her summery snare.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 5:21 PM UTC
He contemplates the Bible
As he adds up every page
Religion's an equation
As he totals every age
Of Man and Beast and Angel
(He's a thick and dowdy sage)
He tries to sum redemption
Through his numbers in a book
He thinks he sees sin everywhere
He's too afraid to look
And so he squints with whetted pen
(to carve his Heaven's nook)
He sits and waits for Rapture
As he whittles souls away
He does it all by numbers
In a slick efficient way
And when it doesn't add up...
("Forgive them... Let us pray.")
May 26, 2011
May 26, 2011 at 5:15 AM UTC
The world takes out its blade
And whittles away
On all that you do
On all that you say
Pared to the bone are you
Naked without cover
All of your dignity stripped away
Nothing is left in the souls bay
Sometimes though its blades
Are ***** and dull
As it whittles you
Into something you're not
The disfigurement of you
At the cruel knife's behest
Where a lasting scar
Stays ingrained in your breast
You find you slowly bleed out
From what you once were
Beginning to end
Carved up by the world
The redeemable pieces of yourself are pasted together
To go forward with the tools of hope
The spirit within is broken
But in this life you find a way to cope
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 8:46 AM UTC
How do you keep it at bay?
As it whittles down your soul?
Past, present, future combined.
And you sink into the hole.
Your shield is love, your sword is hate,
And you’re standing alone.
But who cares you’re broken, it’s all but done,
And you have to atone.
I was a strong and sturdy man,
That so much was true,
Strong skin, but not within,
I just didn’t have a clue.
Fix me, strip me, now I’m naked.
Set to self-destruct.
Here it comes bearing down.
And now we’re ******
My sails have weakened in the wind
And the waves are too high.
It’s dark, the blackness is hugging me tight,
And I can’t, I won’t, I failed, goodbye.
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 3:16 PM UTC