"whittling" poems
Magnolia Queen, Magnolia Queen
Launch one thousand ships
Oh, carry me back to the in-between
Magnolia Queen, Magnolia Queen
The shadows will dance, the shadows will dance
The fire burns hot
From the iron king cobra’s trance
The shadows will dance, the shadows will dance
Oh, carry me home, oh carry me home
Through the absinthe seas
Watching the watchman mumble and drone
Oh, carry me home, oh carry me home
Whittling the trees, whittling the trees
Planets do align
To the face of the Magnolia Queen
Oh, only to the Magnolia Queen
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:02 AM UTC
I feel decompressed and lethargic,
as I continue scrolling through my online soul only to see a kind-hearted person now nostalgic.
Why can't we all feel the same?
Why does the world seem to be aflame?
It's because we all try to accomplish being perfect,
and when we spot "convicts" we don't even detect we inflict neglect.
The thought of unity is fading away as is the hippie way,
a late anniversary bouquet whittling away,
a smoking cigarette left around the ashtray, dying this midsummers day.
Why is this thought so crazy anyway?
The change starts internally,
and can only be finished by an honest community,
one where we can all live with our acquired mental immunity.
Finally, peace sets within our unity.
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
Imagine the earth as a big metal ball
Now see a crow with beak and claw
He sits on that ball and sharpens it beak
Millennium after millennium, week after week
Till that crow's beak was so sharp, no words could explain
Whittling that steel earth sized ball down to the tiniest piece of grain
That dear friend will be the VERY beginning of eternity
How is that for clarity
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
I'm a prisoner of love, in this unguarded cell,
The warden whistles my name you'd think it hell,
but she knows my case all too well,
Her piercing eyes as resolute as the Bastille,
Dodging Cupids arrows at will,
Across this broom is forever, I'm gone for a life long spell,
With Joy as my bars and happiness the rubber shower mats,
Blissful ecstasy is its escape deterrent traps,
I pass the time a whittling hearts and sharpening this rap.
See those chalk lines on the wall of my heart?
They record the memories of my days since the start,
Her smiles are more prized than jailhouse art.
At inspection and roll call in the morning,
The smirk under the cap then a whispering,
Keep careful watch on our "Prisoner Prince Charming",
Sep 22, 2014
Sep 22, 2014 at 1:35 PM UTC
Only those who have used an outhouse would appreciate this.
The Outhouse Poem by unknown author
The service station trade was slow
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and cedar stick
Piled shavings on the ground.
No modern facilities had they,
The log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked His and Hers
That sat against the hill.
"Where is the ladies restroom, Sir ?"
The owner leaning back,
Said not a word but whittled on,
And nodded toward the shack.
With quickened step she entered there
But only stayed a minute,
Until she screamed, just like a snake
Or spider might be in it.
With startled look and beet red face
She bounded through the door,
And headed quickly for the car
Just like three gals before.
She missed the foot log - jumped the stream
The owner gave a shout,
As her silk stockings, down at her knees
Caught on a sassafras sprout.
She tripped and fell - got up, and then
In obvious disgust,
Ran to the car, stepped on the gas,
And faded in the dust.
Of course we all desired to know
What made the gals all do
The things they did, and then we found
The whittling owner knew.
A speaking system he'd devised
To make the thing complete,
He tied a speaker on the wall
Beneath the toilet seat.
He'd wait until the gals got set
And then the devilish tike,
Would stop his whittling long enough,
To speak into the mike.
And as she sat, a voice below
Struck terror, fright and fear,
"Will you please use the other hole,
We're painting under here !"
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
Aeolian dour fire meridians
Unfettering enlightenments will
Together Scylla with authority
Howling, Charybdis in oblivians wake
Shenting spindel meandering;
The schism termagating sirens
Repasts (diabolic manna)
Refracting ambrosial in the
Lap of Gods eye sophically conjecturing
Ephinany- times charioteering,
The nocturnal triunes discordance
Contemplating consequence thistling
Opothecaric sigels permeating lots
Obstruse lathed cerebral skies
Ruthfully roil whittling indelible
Epitaphs of serpentine repositories
Woefully dawning eternity castening
Harmoniously asunder truths
Deifying yen die.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 11:14 AM UTC
A surface gleams its slick ripples,
Solid liquid covering varied depths,
Frigid water held strong to the reflection of sky.
Held steady in gray by overcasts,
That hide the blemishes on this day.
Crack a warning, glints of sarcasm pierce the eye.
Somewhere below live antique creatures,
Demons of yesterday encapsulated.
Slow with slime and cold with sleep,
They dream of spring, dream of a thaw.
When sunshine blasts the sound of life,
Screams an alarm none dare not keep.
The slow shift strains patience,
Green bubbles from woody mottled arms.
Here and there come the arthropods,
Beginning their feast upon new bounty.
Finding themselves delicacies to another,
The flying predator of the mighty worms.
Singing sweet songs that bring dismay,
From April to June sometimes beyond.
Summer arrives in time to sear,
Tears from this repressed eyesight,
The cold winter from the dark water,
Which breed parasites unknowingly to pester.
Teasing sanity of forest dwelling fauna,
To fester in the skin as a tick or leech.
Drawing life out into the open plane,
Whittling down strength for another day
As we lay out the bitter harvest,
As we find another season of complaint.
Reed Bass
January 5, 2008
Nov 14, 2009
Nov 14, 2009 at 3:06 PM UTC
This pencil
This paper
Looks just like coke and razors
I write so much I can't feel your kiss
I'm not attached to humanity
Except through this bleeding heart
That I'm slowly whittling away
It's taking shape of something so ******* beautiful
But you always say I'm killing myself
That I'm in denial
Crocodile tears and a plastic smile
For a while you fool yourself into thinking you're right
For a while you fall for your own ********
This apathy
These scars
Tattoos of times I've been torn apart
I ache for human touch
But every nerve has been severed
I close myself inside
Your ****** up mind
And watch your memories in silence
What we made is so decayed and rotten
We denied life to what we'd forgotten
I can't look at my reflection without slitting its throat
I remember what you told me and I quote:
But you always say I'm killing myself
That I'm in denial
Crocodile tears and a plastic smile
For a while you fool yourself into thinking you're right
For a while you fall for your own ********
This love
Those emotions
Can't find which hole in my heart they go in
I balance my life on the edge of a blade,
I get cut and nicked
No matter which turn I take
I'm teetering, watching myself bleed
It leads me to believe that smile was always fake
There was no right time to deny the lies I regretted
Self destruction was the first defense I hated
As I see all these lines blurred in my head
Thinking back to what you said...
But you always say I'm killing myself
That I'm in denial
Crocodile tears and a plastic smile
For a while you fool yourself into thinking you're right
For a while you fall for your own ********
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
My answers are inadequate
To those demanding day and date
And ever set a tiny shock
Through strangers asking what's o'clock;
Whose days are spent in whittling rhyme--
What's time to her, or she to Time?
2.2k
During the very earliest 1900s
A little boy walked a gravel road
With his grandfather.
The old man kept whittling him
Birch shoots that he whipped at
Weeds with, before he threw them
Aside; ready for another. "Cut me a
Whip, grandpa." "Cut me another."
The old man obeyed smiling.
The man was my great-great
Grandfather. The boy,
My grandfather's oldest brother.
I grew up walking
Those same gravel roads.
Whipping.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 1:44 PM UTC
reverse engineering:
tomorrow
i will know still your voice,
how your silence splits words
into pieces, as you break me
with your collared sweaters and polka dot
socks: tell me i am floating,
question my Gods, forbid me
from touching your church elders; your parents’
Lord.
today
i will know your laughter, a tad frail:
the voice of an unsteady
deity - your fingers - never stilling a pen,
nor sketching a hand - whittling
my own: your chin trembling as you chide me
for their largeness; i show you their erasures:
your lack of wayward lines; your work
of an artist.
yesterday
i tell you to sing, you tell me not to -
you arm yourself and lock away in your room,
say your poetry terrible,
wrong, un-joyful, cross-averted; they cracks
in all the wrong places like your flimsy
hands, like your hopes massive-disintegrating
like the feebleness in your dust-allergic bodies; your lack
of lungs: brittled long by heavy-handed
words and thin brushes: you with death -
the un-wayward stroke: You
who are sickly, whose quiet breaths reach
where we cannot find
and find the places where
our gods long to be touchable.
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
Perched on the plank seat
of the old wagon
the dusty man gently jiggles the reins
of his reliable old steeds,
they as resolved as he
to reach Archer City
to get booked up.
Larry was there with his white hair
whittling his latest creation,
an overweight manuscript
sure to cause a sensation
no matter its heft.
They sat together talking
til the fireflies flew,
shared stories of books
loves, and good bass hooks,
reaching down to fetch a fresh brew
when they got parched
which was frequent
as they spoke at length
of men like Woodrow and Gus,
how they cussed,
poked, and stretched yarn after yarn.
Larry’s gone to the barn
but the guy who pulled up
in that old wagon
still is reading
and yet yearns
to revisit Texas lakes
to fish bass,
visit the local café,
and eat a passel of pancakes
or a big, tasty chicken fried steak.
Jun 18, 2022
Jun 18, 2022 at 1:31 AM UTC
Baby boomer farmers tailgating Carolina red apples ...
Engaged in whittling , rocking beside a powder blue Dodge pickup ..
Mother hens in white aprons selling cocoanut cakes and peanut brittle .
Bluegrass pickers drawing a small crowd , children feasting on corn dogs
with Rock candy tucked away in their shirts ...
Funnel cake fragrance on joyous September nights ...
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 10:03 PM UTC
There are too many things I regret telling you, darling. I regret telling you about how when I was little I nearly died in the accident that totaled my parents' Jetta. I regret mentioning that I felt like your Halloween costume was more important to you than I was. I regret that you let me convince you to help you clean your ******* room so I could feel important. I regret every tear I've made you shed and your pain is carved into my brittle bones so I know just how much I've hurt you. Honestly, I've started to realize how much of a miracle it is that you haven't changed your mind about loving a broken and battered shell of a human being wearing a smiling mask that comes off so slowly it peels away what's left of my pale, flaking skin. I'm surprised you're still interested in my thinning body and tattered soul. My name falling from your lips in ecstasy still sounds so foreign, like hearing a language you never even knew existed. You look at me like I hang the moon in your night sky, making me feel unworthy of the way you treat me, not like a broken toy but rather an ancient heirloom to be treasured and mended. I find myself tossing and turning at night wondering and worrying and whittling away at the fragile self confidence I build when I'm with you and I ******* regret. I regret not opening up and I regret the indisputable fact you could do so much better than me. There are still so many things I regret and letting you read this is one of them but these are all things you need to know and my heart is still in pieces beneath our feet. Yes, there will always be things I regret, but loving you will never be one of them.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:25 AM UTC
he had folded photos of Anita Page above his cot,
and a melancholy little crucifix,
and, of course, a long-winded letter from his mum.
he dipped tobacco and always tried to spit it on the barrack’s ceiling.
he would squander half of his canteen on his hair, if it got too muddy in the trenches.
he whittled a bar of soap into a horse one time,
and then washed himself with it right afterwards.
he always put on his cap at this saucy sort of angle,
even though there never was a lady around to woo.
once i saw him read Jules Verne, and I asked him about it,
and he said “Who? You know I can’t read for squat.”
he was a funny man, you know, a guy that makes life feel good.
two days ago i saw his lungs throb against the walls of his ribcage,
i saw his adam’s apple swell up rotten, and his neck grow thick and veiny.
his muscles spasmed and his orifices emptied and all i could think was
how worthless it is to carve a horse out of soap and then soak it to nothing right after?
it makes me wonder why someone would bother
whittling in the first place.
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 11:18 PM UTC
Reckoning gaze, learning ropes, knotty pine encasement, knowing what the box looks like from inside is preeminent inimitable. I was so certain last year would be it. Likely even, I thought the same the year before and years before that, all whilst whittling away, planks of this coffin, scratching to get out. Sealed in a fate, this vampiric rising, doomed to eternity of night crawling. Yet, by no means has glamour of Hollywood realm flickered any sheen, this direction. Not all vampires can afford tuxedos. Grosgrain lapels, and red satin lined capes do do wonders for former stars of silver screen, but this succubus prefers his naked lot. Apparently, malignant rogues who lie amongst worms don't always have the wardrobe to go with it. New Year's resolution: a tuxedo, perhaps some tails, and somewhere to wear them.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
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
Spurious words and spinning wheels
grasping the unmade road
crossing streams of deserted hinterlands
sparing no weakness
Plenty in the fork of the day
shining down like twilight
whittling down the breeze of night
and smashing up the stars
Meandering past the lazy groves
grain in corsets
musk in roses
pushing the littlest hearts
and raising their eyes to the sky
a glimpse and a glimmer
sparkle of the waters
and we were unshackled
lost
In more ways than one
you whispered in the tiniest hours
and I heard the edges of your echoes
resounding slowly and gradually
rebounding for more
filling the universe.
Aug 18, 2012
Aug 18, 2012 at 10:16 AM UTC
If his kisses were a color, I imagine they would be blue,
Sinking into them like the rippling ocean.
The magic of his beauty pouring into me like the dazzling sky.
He was hard to love not because he was broken,
But because he wouldn’t let the jagged edges of his broken bits cut me.
With tender hands and brilliant smiles,
I could turn his fractured knives into smooth gems,
Whittling them down to grains of sand on sunkissed beaches,
And planting flowers in his heart where dark and abandoned gardens have formed.
Black fear anxiously dances in his eyes.
His electric blue kisses and his charcoal black solitude,
Create a color that craves both pleasure and danger.
In this limbo he remains, growing gray,
Chasing love and healing away.
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 8:25 PM UTC
My grandmother always said
“The way into a person’s heart is through their stomach”
I keep replaying that lesson over in my mind
Tracing the flowers on the edge of this plate
I ask myself what tempting poison must have been fed to you
To make the three hours I spent on this lasagna not enough
I once thought of taking my life but the thought of all the people I needed to help kept me here
An act of complete selflessness
An act of complete selfishness
I cannot live my life for other people; it is not fair to them
Nor is it fair to me
If you keep drinking from a well
It will run dry
If you keep whittling a tree
It will be only a stump
I am not a bottomless wealth of help
I too have begun to run dry
But I refuse to choose the path of martyrdom
I will not teach a lesson learned by my absence
A person lost is missed most when left unresolved
I don’t want to be a case of what could have been said
…What should have been said
I give 100 percent of me and get back none
As an act of self-preservation I must brick over the mouth of this well
For I have grown weary of one way streets
I would give it all to you
And you can’t even spare a thing for me
I don’t ask for your pity or your hand outs
I may stand on the street and sing
But not to fill my cup with coins
But to sing
Today I must look at this street corner differently
For if I sang for change and received no coins
I would move to another corner
I know you will remember me
I know you ‘re changed by me
But I only wish I was ever presently important
For a friend who is seen as important in hindsight
Is a friend who is already gone
So I give you one last chance
I am here
I am now
Do not waste me
For I will go to another corner soon
And this time to sing for change
Because my throat has grown weary
I can no longer sing to you just simply to sing to you
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
knowledge awaits is the ticket
they sell you as you pass through
the pearly gates of higher learning
with textbook in hand you pray
that the dream you have isn't as much of
a work of fiction as the history they teach
with your college bound girl
her vanity lay in her turtle frame glasses
she hides behind the foggy lenses of her
casual drugs and meaningful ****** episodes
she grasps the back of your letterman jacket
hoping that you are as surefooted as your propaganda speaks
as you follow the blinding path
of confusions principal and you think to yourself repeatedly
that the truth in the simplest explanation is the actually the most complex
because you make it that with
realizations and rationalizations
through the day to day whittling away
of what you really are
through lying to yourself that
if you stick it out with this false life
one more day it will all be better
that the relationship you are trapped in
will work with you
instead of making every day
an uphill battle to be heard
and loved without tears
sometimes look into her eyes and
see the endless road of escaping her past
and i think that i just want to stop running away
settle down
and be
just simply be
a father, a husband, a lover
happy
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 12:09 PM UTC
Frozen stone walls,
cracked and aging.
Floors of dirt,
forever waiting.
Cold steel bars,
rusted and corroding.
Last bit of hope,
slowly fading.
They tell me hell is waiting for me,
they say that there's a welcoming party.
They laugh and they cry,
as they spit in my eyes,
whittling crosses out of wood,
they're what He despises.
I sit here, slowly dying,
waiting for death to set me free,
hanging noose waits in the gallows for me.
Day after day,
after day,
after day.
They cry and they die,
from unknown diseases.
Condemning each other,
when somebody wheezes.
Now He hates what he has created,
so he's trying to destroy the Earth to save it.
I'm not the villain,
I'm not here to sin,
I'm here to save what's left,
of his His once great creation.
I sit here, slowly dying,
waiting for death to set me free,
hanging noose waits in the gallows for me.
Day after day,
after day,
after day.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
Your sheep skin drapes
Far too loosely, boy.
You're much too starved
to be taken seriously.
You've spent too much time
Grinding your teeth against the wind,
And too little whittling
Courtship with your claws.
They're all going to laugh at you, boy.
Your wool-woven fool's crown
Tells you it's true.
They're all going to laugh at you.
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 8:41 AM UTC
Leave your demons behind they grunt with oppression.
If pride was a cloak then you'd wear it well.
Those who see you for who you are don't have eyes,
their souls are primed with smitten sins.
Dancing with the wolves gives you the danger you deserve but you play with the pups.
Lust love lust love
what does it matter you'll get your way oh master of words,
show me those pretty eyes, Mr. Soul play your music.
This is for you God of rock.
Push pull push pull
the threads are unwinding,
whittling your story,
sewing your fate.
Lips of spice drowning in tongue.
Where's your cheek?
Swallow that pill please because you take that medicine well.
Society huh?
what a dream, keep your ideals because this is hell...
Welcome, leave your soul at the Doors.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 5:46 AM UTC